Chapter XXI

DR. CRAWFORD'S surprise on finding that Bennett had left his house was equalled by his anxiety to know how her departure had been brought about. The explanation was soon given.

Eager to make friends with the little people, Grace Steyne had asked Ida's permission to visit the nursery directly after breakfast, and, after staying there as long as she chose, to bring Doris down-stairs with her.

Her light tap at the nursery door had to be followed by a louder knock before any notice was taken. Then Bennett opened the door, and, having closed it behind her, so as to prevent Grace from looking into the room, asked in very unpleasant tone what she wanted there.

"I am come to see the children, and in a little while to take Doris into the morning-room to Mrs. Crawford," replied Grace, astonished at the nurse's attitude.

"Excuse me, miss," said Bennett, "but I cannot allow strange young ladies in my nursery all hours of a day. I send the children down at proper times, and if their mamma wants any change made, I shall look to her to say so. If you wish to find Miss Doris, you will have to seek her in the grounds, where she is with Ann and the eldest little boy."

Bennett remained with her back to the door, evidently determined not to admit the visitor. And Grace, seeing that she could do nothing else, began to descend the stairs, in order to return to Mrs. Crawford. Then the woman re-entered the nursery, shut the door with a bang, and burst into a laugh, so loud that it reached Miss Steyne's ears.

"Did you not find the children in, or have they tired you already?" asked Mrs. Crawford, on seeing her visitor back so soon.

Very quietly Grace told what had happened.

"Bennett must have taken leave of her senses," said Ida in utter amazement. "What can be the meaning of her conduct? I will go to her when I have found my keys and given Jessie from the storeroom."

The keys were not forthcoming. Mrs. Crawford was sure she had left them in her bedroom, but a search there had proved fruitless. Then Jean Graham's warning flashed across her mind, and without another word she ran lightly to the nursery and entered.

No need to ask for an explanation of Bennett's insolence. On the table lay the keys, and near them a half-emptied bottle of spirits, whilst the nurse's flushed face and excited manner told the rest.

The unfortunate woman had again yielded to the temptation which had proved the bane of her life, and repeatedly lost her place, friends, and character.

At first she strove to put on a bold front, then tried tears and entreaties. But finding that her young mistress, whom she had deemed a tool in her hands, could be firm on occasion, she sat down in dogged silence, and defied her command to prepare for leaving the house.

But when Ida rang the bell and sent to request Mr. Armstrong's presence, the miserable woman resisted no further, and Steynes-Cote was soon rid of her presence.

A careful examination of the nursery discovered sundry empty bottles, which must have been abstracted when full from Dr. Crawford's cellar. There was also a small one, at the bottom of which were only a few drops of a thick liquid.

"This explains why Bennett wanted the laudanum," said Mr. Armstrong. "It was to be combined with syrup to make a sleeping dose for the children. Here is a very small quantity of the stuff in this bottle."

Well might Ida's face turn pale, when, in addition to the experience of the day, she became acquainted with the result of her husband's inquiries, and heard about Bennett's stealthy visits to the surgery.

"I can never be thankful enough," she said to her husband, "for the safety of our dear little ones. They have had a very careless mother, who was not fit to be trusted with them. I am learning new lessons very fast, dear Andrew."

"You must not take all the blame to yourself, my Ida," replied her husband; "the larger share ought to be laid to my account. The father has his responsibilities as well as the mother."

"But you are always so busy, dear; I ought to have watched over the children."

"I knew so much of which you could not be but ignorant, Ida, I ought to have warned you. Henceforth I trust we shall work together," replied the doctor. "I will instruct, you shall carry out my rules; will you not, darling?"

"Will I not? But oh, Andrew, I blame myself on that poor woman's account also. If I had not been so careless, she could not so easily have found the means for gratifying that wretched craving. Jean suspected her, and warned me not to leave my keys within reach of Bennett. I feel that I have helped to put temptation in her way. Poor thing! What will become of her?"

It was not easy to answer this question. There were so many things to be considered beside the fault which had been the immediate cause of the nurse's dismissal, and Ida was compelled to leave this.

"What is to be done with the children?" asked the doctor. "We must be very careful about engaging another nurse."

"I think of trying with only Ann," replied Ida. "She is a good, truthful girl, and really did the greater part of the nursery work. I shall find it rather difficult to give orders at first, for I know so little, but Grace will tell me how to manage. It seems strange, does it not, that an unmarried girl should be the teacher to a wife of four years' standing? But I am not ashamed to learn, because I am now realizing my utter ignorance."

"What are to be the immediate arrangements?" asked the doctor.

"Grace insists on having Doris in her room, so her cot has been removed to it. Ann will sleep in the night nursery with the others. She feels confident that she can manage them, for the two boys sleep well, and she has been used to babies at home. I know what that look means, Andrew," continued Ida, who was watching her husband's countenance. "You are wondering what is to be my share of the work. It seems very sad to say it, but baby knows Ann so much better than she does me that we think it may be wise to let her stay with the girl just at first. If she were to come to me, all would be strange around her. The little ones are certain to miss Bennett, who was so much with them. You see, dear, I have to learn how to manage the little baby. As to Doris, she will go back to the night nursery when Grace leaves us, and before then I hope I shall be accustomed to the charge of our 'number four.' Only you must not be disturbed, so if baby should be fractious, I shall steal away with her out of hearing."

Dr. Crawford smiled as he listened, and then told Ida that he was sure she was planning for the best, though he had not intended to begin economizing in the nursery department. "I had thought that with so many servants, and with every accommodation for it, the laundry work might be done at home. However, I would much rather you should take the advice of an accomplished housekeeper like Grace Steyne than follow any suggestion of mine. Grace's knowledge is founded on experience, mine is but theoretical."

"We think it will be better to go into other matters when Jean Graham comes back," said Ida.

The doctor assented, and she added, "I know Jean's value now as I never did before. I shall be glad to see her good, true face again."

Mrs. Crawford was to see Jean sooner than she expected. On that same evening, just after dinner, there was a sound of wheels on the gravel, and the doctor looked towards the door in the expectation of a summons. But the vehicle, whatever it was, did not stop at the front entrance, but passed round to the back door.

"Who can it be?" said the doctor, after a brief silence.

"I believe it is Jean," cried Mrs. Crawford, and without waiting to inquire, she rushed out of the room to see for herself.

Truly it was Jean; and though she returned to Steynes-Cote in sorrow of heart, it must have been some satisfaction to her to witness the look of delight on Mrs. Crawford's face, and to hear her words of welcome.

"Jean, dear, good Jean, is it really you?" cried Ida. "I thought I knew your voice, but I could not believe my ears, so brought my eyes to make sure."

The words were accompanied with a warm clasp of the hand—indeed, of both hands, for Ida seized Jean's between hers and held them there as she spoke.

"Yes, mistress, I am here again," said Jean.

But though she looked lovingly at Mrs. Crawford's fair face, there was a melancholy ring in the tone of Jean's voice, and the words were followed by a sigh.

"Come in here, Jean," said Ida, drawing her into the morning-room, where there was a cheerful fire, but no occupant. "You have had a long journey, and must be both tired and hungry. Warm yourself first, for the night is chilly; then, when you have taken off your things, Jessie shall bring you something here, for I want to talk to you. I have so much to tell you, Jean, about what made you anxious at the very moment when you were starting for Scotland. You were right in suspecting Bennett, only we have found out far more than you guessed at, and I have sent her away."

"Thank God!" said Jean fervently. "Your words have taken one load off me."

"One load! Well, I hope if there are other loads, we may help to remove them also—at least, if they are connected with Steynes-Cote. Do you know Miss Steyne is here, and we hope to keep her here for some time? We have become friends already; and, Jean, I am going to be her pupil and yours. But now you must go to your room, and make yourself ready for the meal, which will be laid here by that time."

"I will go to the kitchen," replied Jean. "I am not wanting much, but a cup of tea will make a new woman of me."

"Whatever you have, it shall be here," insisted Mrs. Crawford. "Miss Steyne is deep in a book just now, the doctor has to go out again, but will come to shake hands with you first, and Mr. Armstrong has some medicine to prepare, so I shall be free to have a talk with you when you come down."

"I will come back to ye, then, mistress," said Jean in a weary voice, so unlike her own that Mrs. Crawford instinctively heard in it a presage of trouble. Indeed, the first glimpse of her face had been enough to show that Jean's holiday had been productive of no gladness. The hopeful, bright expression was gone from it, and she stood there a careworn, sad-looking woman, over whose head many a year might have passed since she left Steynes-Cote.

The doctor did not notice the change, for he met Jean in the passage, and her back was to the light as he gave her a hearty greeting.

But when she returned to the morning-room without her bonnet, it was even more apparent to Mrs. Crawford than before.

Ida, however, said nothing at first to show that she observed any difference, but after pressing Jean to eat, she told her all that had happened during her absence, as well as some of her plans for household changes.

Jean answered briefly, but listened with manifest interest, and when Mrs. Crawford said, "You see, I am just coming to what you wished me to do so long ago, and I am relying on you also to help me," she turned a brighter face to her mistress than she had hitherto shown, and said,—

"You know how glad I shall be to do my best for ye and for Master Andrew."

"I believe you will always look on the doctor as a mere boy, though he is older than you, Jean," said Mrs. Crawford.

But Jean's face had lost its brightness again as she answered, "Not now, mistress—not now. I have grown old all at once." And she burst into tears.

To see Jean Graham weep was like witnessing the utter breakdown of some strong man. She had ever been so bright, helpful, and hopeful; ever the one to sustain the weak and cheer those who were cast down, both by words and acts of sympathy.

Now poor Jean sorely needed comfort, and she could hardly tell how it was, but it seemed to her sore heart that she longed to receive it from her young mistress. She did not look in vain. In a moment, Ida's arms were round the neck of her faithful servant, and her own beautiful eyes were filled with sympathetic tears.

"Tell me what is the matter, Jean," she said. "You may trust me. I know what you have been in this house and to all who have wanted the help you could give. Let me do something for you, if there is anything in my power to do."

Thus urged, Jean, in a voice broken by sobs, told her love-story to her young mistress. Part of it has already been related, the rest shall be given as Mrs. Crawford heard it from Jean's own lips.

"When Robert left me that morning, I stood in the doorway like one without power to speak or move. I felt as if I must call him back, but something held me from crying to him. I wanted Rab to be reasonable, to give me the time I asked, and yet I knew that if he were beside me, I had nothing new to say. I could only tell him that I must do the right thing by those whose bread I had eaten during all those years; that I could not leave them without a fitting warning, and to give it, I must come back and tell my tale with my own lips.

"I had said all this to him, and first he had gone away in anger, and again he had come back to make it up, but after his own fashion. I must just give in to his will and be married off-hand, though to my dying day my conscience would have reproached me for doing a right thing at the wrong time, and in the wrong way.

"But I said to myself, 'Rab must have some reason in him,' though his going right out of sight without so much as casting a look behind at me, where I stood watching him as well as I could through my tears, showed how hard he could be when he made up his mind to it. 'He will come again when the fit is past, and he has had time to be sorry.'"

"And did he come?" asked Mrs. Crawford, for Jean's voice had suddenly failed her again.

"No," sobbed Jean. "The days passed, and he never came near the farm, and father and mother wondered, and looked at me as if they wanted to ask what had happened. Their looks asked me many a time, and mine must have told that I was going about carrying a sore heart, but that was all.

"I never left the house and farm, for I was frightened of missing Rab. I never doubted that he would come in time. On the fourth day my father went to the market. It was on the Friday, and when he came home, there was an angry look on his face that I had seldom seen there. He did not tell me what had brought it, but my mother did. He had met Robert Hamilton in the town, and, instead of the old neighbourly handshake and talk, Rab had passed him with a cold 'Good-day t' ye.' He neither asked after my mother nor me, and he did not give my father a second look.

"There were neighbours at market who saw Rab pass by my father without stopping, and they wondered first and next began to talk. They had more to talk about when Sunday came, for Robert came to the kirk with a young lass, the prettiest and giddiest to be found in a long day's walk. He went home with her, never looking the side I was on. And the next day, an old gossiping wife came to our house and told my mother that Rab Hamilton had found a lass of twenty for a sweetheart, and there would be a short wooing, or she was mistaken. Also, that he would get money with the girl, and more when her father had done with it.

"My mother was too proud to let the woman know what she thought, so she said, 'Rab has been a good son and brother, and waited long for a wife, and I hope he will get what he deserves.'

"We had it all over together afterwards, father, and mother, and me. They were angry for my sake, and father would fain have seen Rab and told him his mind, but I would not have it. I only said, 'Ye'll spare me a while longer, for you did not expect me coming to stay altogether just yet, and mother is looking better than I hoped.'

"So they saw how hard it would be for me to bide longer, and, though my holiday was little more than half over, they prayed that God would bless me, and bade me come to Steynes-Cote. And this is how it happens that I am here so soon."