Chapter IX

DURING the first months of her married life, Mrs. Crawford often accompanied her husband in his rounds, and waited for him in the carriage with a book, or walked on, to be overtaken by it. But when winter came, this was less practicable, and Ida herself less fit to join him, whilst feeling his frequent absences more and more.

In his affectionate consideration for his girl-wife, Dr. Crawford had been a little too anxious to make her first essay at housekeeping as easy as possible. He knew her to be absolutely ignorant of domestic matters, and that she had never been called on to think or plan for others.

"She will be in good hands," thought the doctor. "Jean Graham will put her in the way of things, and a sense of her own responsibility as the mistress of a home will come gradually and naturally; only give her time."

But time did not effect much change in this respect. Mrs. Crawford was only too well satisfied to let household cares rest on the faithful shoulders of Jean Graham, who was the very essence of capability. Jean had first come to Shelverton, a girl of sixteen, to serve Mrs. Fereday, and with strong recommendations from Andrew Crawford's parents, and had been twelve years at Steynes-Cote when her mistress died. By this event, Jean was placed at the head of the household. She had "just guided the house," as she expressed it, until Master Andrew should bring home a proper mistress.

Contrary both to her expectations and wishes, she was allowed to guide it still. For though Mrs. Crawford nominally took the reins, it was Jean's head that planned and her hands that directed, so that all ran smoothly as before. Jean felt a certain awe of her fair young mistress, because she was "a high-born lady," but this was mingled with a sense of pity for her utter ignorance of domestic affairs.

"I cannot make out what her folks must have been thinking of," mused Jean. "They have taught her just nothing. Why, by all accounts, the very daughters of the Queen, when they were bits o' things, used to play at housekeeping, and guide a little cottage they had, doing their cleaning and cooking with their own hands. Food tastes sweet when it's flavoured with work, and a spread table has a bonnie look in the eyes of those that have planned the dishes, to say nothing of cooking them. It's no letting down to the most high-born lady to know how the homeliest things are done. They were grand housekeepers in the old Bible times, when Sarah was not ashamed, at the bidding of Abraham, to knead the meal and bake the cakes."

Day by day Jean went to receive orders from her mistress, and always with the same result. There would be a pretence at consultation, then Mrs. Crawford would say, with her winning smile, "Do what you think will be best, Jean. Everything is certain to be right if you arrange it, for you know what Dr. Crawford likes far better than I do."

"Indeed, mem, I'm much obliged to you," Jean would say, drawing herself up with a gratified air. "It's pleasant to be trusted, but all the same, I am not afraid of every corner being looked into. And would it not be well for ye, mem, to learn the doctor's likings, and for your own satisfaction to look round a wee bit more, and cast up the accounts at the week end?"

"I am quite satisfied, Jean. Even Mrs. Prattely's lovely house is not more beautifully kept than mine. Besides," she added, with that musical laugh of hers, "if everything were not right, you would not be so anxious for me to examine the corners and reckon with you for every halfpenny. No, no, Jean; I am not clever at proverbial sayings, but there is one which Dr. Crawford often uses when people want him to give them medicine for imaginary ailments. It is, 'Let well alone.' I mean to act upon it with you."

Jean Graham had a very soft heart under a somewhat rugged outside, and when Mrs. Crawford smiled in her face, she was as wax in the delicate hands that were of so much less use in the world than were her work-hardened ones. She felt as though she had not only the house to guide, but a beautiful child to care for. The faithful woman would have scorned to take the smallest advantage of her young mistress's easy-going trustfulness, which, though complimentary, sorely disappointed Jean. How to rouse Mrs. Crawford into taking her rightful place was a problem that she was constantly striving to solve, but every effort was answered by increased assurances of confidence.

"If it were anybody else but you, Jean, I should see to things. With you, it would be time wasted," Mrs. Crawford would say.

"Had ye not better begin with me, mem? Then, whoever comes after, ye will be in the way of doing it."

"Surely you are not going to leave me now, Jean," said her mistress, with a look of dismay.

"Indeed, no, mem, I'm not meanin' to leave ye; but life is uncertain, and ye should be ready to take the guiding of things if I were called."

Mrs. Crawford's brow cleared. Was that ell? The idea of Jean conjuring up such a bugbear to frighten her with! She was ready to laugh as she looked at her maid's solemn face, and she said, "Why, Jean! You talk as if you were seventy, instead of being a fine, hale young woman of twenty-nine. You are actually a little younger than Dr. Crawford."

"That's true. But, mem, we must mind that the stones in the churchyard have all ages on them, and the prayer, 'So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom,' fits you, my bonnie young lady, that are only just into the twenties, as well as it does me, that am getting close to the thirties, or the folk that are older than both our ages put together. Surely it fits us better than it would suit the threescore years and ten. It would be almost too late to begin numbering our days then, when we had passed the regular span of human life."

"Well, Jean, now you have done preaching, I will take a line out of that same Book, and remind you that 'Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.'"

"And that's true enough," returned Jean reverently. "There's always plenty of ill to battle with, and we want more than our own strength to come off conquerors; but we may be quite sure we can never get too much of good into any one day, or start learning a right lesson too soon. You'll forgive me for preaching, mistress, will ye not?"

"You are a dear, good creature, Jean. I don't know what I should do without you," replied Mrs. Crawford warmly. "But you must go on as you have done a little longer; I cannot begin new ways just yet."

The trusty servant left her mistress's presence, wiping her eyes, and thinking to herself, "There'll be a change by-and-by; she will have something to think for and take up her spare time. There's wonderful wisdom and staidness often comes to a young mother along with a baby. It brings these with it, as well as the love, the poor bit thing!"

Certainly the arrival of the baby-girl brought a vast sense of riches to Jean herself, and there were that glad tears in her eyes when the doctor said he hoped the little one would be called after her late beloved mistress.

"God grant that the babe may be like her both in ways and name!" she said, as Dr. Crawford bent to kiss the little face of his first-born.

"If she does, she will resemble a good woman, Jean; but I think her face is like her mother's."

Jean laughed.

"Eh, Master Andrew," she replied, lapsing into the old familiar name, "we aye see in a new bairn's face the image of that we love best. Ye're no clearer-sighted than the rest o' folk, if ye can find your leddy's likeness in the bit red thing before ye."

The doctor echoed Jean's laugh.

"I daresay you are right, Jean," he said. "Little Grace will have to be very fair to resemble her mother, and very good to be worthy of the name I hope she will bear."

Dr. Crawford said "I hope," because the question of the baby's name had not yet been mooted between his wife and himself. When it was, he was not a little disappointed to hear Ida say,—

"No, Andrew; we must not call her by such an old-fashioned name. I never liked it, and I am afraid I have cared less for it lately, because I have heard so much of Mrs. Fereday's perfections from everybody who knew her. The name repeated, in baby's case, would sound like a perpetual reproach to me."

The words were lightly said, but they pained him who heard them. At once, he resolved that the little one should not be called after his aunt.

"The child shall not bear the name of her I so loved and honoured, if the sound of it is to be less sweet in her mother's ears than in mine," thought he. He said nothing of the feeling of pain engendered by Ida's careless words, and even in his mind, he did not blame her for them.

Love is ever ready with excuses, and Dr. Crawford had one ready for his wife, and said to himself, "She never knew Aunt Grace, or she would now feel as I do."

To Ida, the doctor said, "Choose any name you like. With that one exception, all names are pretty much the same to me."

"Then we will call her Doris, for I think our little baby is the most precious of gifts," replied Ida.

And the matter was settled.

Baby Doris was just a fortnight old on Mrs. Crawford's twenty-first birthday. And then the doctor pointed triumphantly to the pink and white face, and asked Jean who had been right about the likeness.

Ida was lying on a couch in her room in the daintiest of invalid wrappers, and looking more beautiful than ever. Rather too beautiful, thought her husband, for her face was more flushed than he liked to see it, and bore a troubled expression.

"The second post is in, Andrew, and there is no letter," said Ida in a tremulous voice, while the tears began to steal down her cheeks. "I did not think Lindsay would have allowed his only sister's birthday, the twenty-first too, to pass without a line or a good wish."

"Perhaps he has forgotten the date, darling; men are so often careless about such things. Lord Carnelly could not be wilfully unkind. Depend on it, we shall either see or hear from him very soon."

"I have given up all hope of seeing him here. Beatrice will take care of that, and keep him away always, if possible. She never liked me, and she has used her influence to prevent either my brother or his children from coming near us, though we have been nearly a year married. Besides, if Lindsay did not care enough about me to write a word of congratulation, he ought to have written about the money. His trust in regard to my little fortune ends to-day."

Dr. Crawford became alarmed, as he noticed his wife's increasing excitement, and he strove to soothe her by appearing to make light of the matter.

"You may hear from Lindsay yet," he said. "It would be so like him to recollect your birthday when it was too late for writing, and to send you a telegram. I shall not give up hope before midnight. And, darling, remember, I am not only concerned for my wife, but answerable for the well-being of my patient also. If you make a trouble of this little matter, you will do yourself harm and the child too."

Dr. Crawford spoke of Lord Carnelly's neglect as a little matter, but his conscience reproved him as he used the term. He could not think lightly of it himself, though he strove to turn his wife's mind from dwelling upon it. Only the day before, Ida had been so bright and happy, smiling on her child's face, as she told the unconscious little one that her coming had cheated mamma of her birthday party.

"But we will have it by-and-by," she said, "my baby Doris and I will share in it, for it shall take place on the christening day, and celebrate in a simple way my coming of age. We shall hear from Uncle Lindsay to-morrow. I shall not need to beg for the company of nephews or nieces, now I have this precious little daughter of my own."

On the following day, when no message came from Lord Carnelly, the sunny look faded from Ida's face, and was followed by a troubled one.

Dr. Crawford needed no explanation to tell him that his wife was deeply pained by her brother's neglect, and that it was preying on her mind. He did not, however, attribute Lord Carnelly's silence to want of affection, but to lack of money, and said to himself, "How could Lindsay write a congratulatory letter without also alluding to business matters? Poor fellow! He desires to do what is kind and right, but his wife's influence stands in the way of the one, and her extravagance renders the other impossible."

Dr. Crawford had long been aware, through another channel, that his wife's little fortune ought to have been paid to him on her wedding day, and that Lord Carnelly had purposely deferred the payment. He was more really sorry for the want of candour in his brother-in-law than concerned about the money itself. They had been such friends in the old days, and Dr. Crawford thought sorrowfully, "He might have trusted me. Surely I was not likely to be less his friend because of the new family tie between us."

The doctor had abundant cause for displeasure, as even the interest of the money had not been paid; but he was far more anxious about Ida herself, and desirous that she should not be injured by the uneasiness which her brother's silence had caused. He accordingly telegraphed to Lord Carnelly, and begged him to send a message to his sister through the same medium, as she was grieved at his apparent neglect. The answer was prepaid, and it came in these words:—

"Lord Carnelly absent; yachting with a friend. No certain address.
Expected home shortly. Telegram shall be forwarded as soon as possible."

Dr. Crawford recognised the name of the sender, John Morris, as that of Lord Carnelly's butler, and wondered a little that no allusion was made to Lady Carnelly.

"She must be from home also," he thought; "and no doubt Morris, who is a trustworthy man, is left in charge, and bidden to answer any such communication as mine."

The doctor was mistaken in this supposition. Lady Carnelly was at home, but did not choose to answer the telegram herself. She therefore bade Morris use his own name, though she wrote the message apparently sent by the servant.

Scanty as was the intelligence thus conveyed, it was better than nothing, and Dr. Crawford hastened with it to his wife's side.

"I telegraphed an inquiry about Lindsay," he said, "and here is the reply. You see, darling, your brother is away, and probably out of postal bounds, so there is a fair excuse for his silence. You will hear from him before long."

The doctor spoke cheerfully, but Ida was not satisfied.

"He ought to have written," she said. "He had no right to pass over this birthday. I did so wish you to receive the little I can claim as my own, Andrew. So little, too, in comparison with Lindsay's share, and yet he withholds it."

The doctor would only treat the matter lightly.

"Then, dearest, we will not make a great trouble about this little, but rather be thankful that we are in no way dependent on it. When you placed this dear hand in mine, you bestowed the best you had to give, for I know your heart was given with it."

"No, Andrew," interrupted Ida, with a bright smile. "The heart was yours long before."

"True, darling, and I like to hear you say so, and to see the shadow clearing from your face." He kissed her tenderly, adding, as he passed his hand lovingly over her shining hair, "For ten times the sum your brother holds, I would not have you suffer an hour's real heartache. The settlement is only a question of time."

Won back to smiles by her husband's cheery words and bright face, Mrs. Crawford strove to think that this neglect of Lindsay's did not arise from wilful unkindness.

"He never was a good man of business," she said, "and he always put off letter-writing as long as possible. I am sure you are right, Andrew. I will not worry myself and you about what cannot at present be helped. I suppose, so long as the interest is paid, a little delay cannot matter much."

"Certainly not, dear," was the cheerful answer.

But Dr. Crawford did not tell his wife that hitherto he had received no interest from Lord Carnelly.

Before night, a second telegram was delivered at the surgery door, and this caused serious anxiety to Andrew Crawford.