Chapter XXII

"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."