Chapter III: Dr. Reed at Home

"NOW, father, for a nice, cosy chat. Take your favourite chair close to the fire, and the little mother shall sit opposite to you, and, oh, I do hope nobody will disturb us to-night!"

The speaker was Ann Reed, and the scene was the drawing-room of the Reeds' house, on the night of the doctor's return from London. He had dined with his wife and daughter, and, having seen his assistant and ascertained that all had gone well during his absence, he had joined them in the drawing-room where they had been waiting for him for the past hour. Sinking into the comfortable chair which Ann had pulled near the fireplace, he heaved a sigh of perfect contentment, and a tender smile shone in his grey eyes as he looked from one to the other of the two faces which, to him, were the dearest in the world.

Mrs. Reed was a little woman with a slight, girlish figure, and a sweet-tempered rather than a pretty countenance, around which waved a quantity of soft, fair hair, which made her look younger than her years. She had been a hospital nurse before her marriage, and had brought her husband no money, but those who knew her well declared she was a fortune to him in herself; for she had a shrewd head for business, and had always kept his books and managed his home most capably; in short, she had proved a helpmeet to him in the truest sense of the word. Now, as she met her husband's eyes, she said:—

"I, too, hope we shall not be disturbed to-night. It seems an age since we three enjoyed a chat together, though in reality you have been only absent from home a week. The time dragged while you were away, did it not, Ann?"

"Yes," Ann assented; "you were very good to write every day, father, and the cream you sent us was delicious, and arrived quite fresh."

She was standing before her father, a slight, tall figure—though barely fifteen she was half a head taller than her mother—with a bright flush on her cheeks, and her eyes—very like her father's they were—shining with happiness. Though she could not be called pretty, there was something wonderfully attractive in her face, in its frank expression and lack of self-consciousness.

"It's pleasant to know one has been missed," Dr. Reed said, in a satisfied tone; "and I'm glad to be at home again. I should have been back on Saturday if I had not run against my old friend, Clement Wyndham. He asked me to spend Sunday with him, and I was glad to be able to accept his invitation and talk over old times. I was grieved, though, to see how much he has changed; he looks more than his age. Poor Wyndham!"

Ann seated herself on a stool at her father's feet, and leaned her head against his knee. "Why do you say 'poor Wyndham,' father?" she inquired.

"Because I am afraid life has not treated him very kindly, my dear. He is a journalist, a clever fellow, but somehow he has not managed to make much headway in his profession, and he has a long family—three girls and two boys—and, I fear, rather an incapable sort of woman for a wife. Mrs. Wyndham seems very nice, but I imagine she is a poor manager; indeed their home at Streatham showed me that fact plainly enough. I dined there, and made the acquaintance of the whole family— good-looking, intelligent children all of them. The eldest girl, Ruth, appeared very helpful; I noticed the servant consulted her about several matters, and her father told me that she was his right hand. She is only about your age, Ann; but there is a little worried pucker between her brows already, as though the cares of life weigh upon her mind. Next to Ruth in age come Violet and Madge—extremely pretty children they are; then come the boys who are twins and very fine little fellows indeed. The children attend day schools at Streatham; their school bills must take a substantial slice out of their father's income."

"Yes, indeed," agreed Mrs. Reed. "Mr. Wyndham is a journalist, you say?"

"Yes. He has a post on a daily paper, he has had it for years in fact, but it leads to nothing better. Being a married man with a long family he cannot afford to strike for a larger salary, though he is most inadequately paid for his work. He told me that he has had to stand quietly by and see less efficient men pushed into lucrative posts through interested friends. It must have been very hard lines for him."

"What a shame to treat him so unfairly!" Ann cried warmly, her eyes darkening with indignation. "Is he, then, so very poor, father?"

"Well, I'm afraid his income scarcely meets the requirements of his family, my dear. He did not actually say so, but I gleaned as much."

"I am very sorry for him, poor man," said Mrs. Reed, her voice full of sympathy, "and for his wife, too."

The doctor looked thoughtfully into the fire, and for a few minutes there was silence, then Ann asked:—

"Isn't there anything you can do to help Mr. Wyndham, father?"

"That's what I've been wondering, Ann," he replied.

"You couldn't give him money or—if he would not like that—lend it to him?"

"N-o-o. He did not tell me he was in need of monetary help. But, perhaps, I—we might help him in some other way."

"We?" Mrs. Reed said interrogatively. "What is in your mind, Andrew? Let us hear."

"Well, my dear, Wyndham confided to me that he is rather troubled about Ruth, his eldest girl. She is to leave the school, which she now attends with her sisters, at Christmas—it is only a school for young girls it appears—and he would like to send her to a thoroughly good boarding-school for a couple of years if he could hear of one where the terms are 'very reasonable' as he expressed it; and I've been thinking how it would be to have Ruth here—she would be a capital companion for Ann—and let her complete her education at Helmsford College. Of course we should undertake to pay her school fees and in every way provide for her as long as she remains with us."

"Oh, father, how clever of you to think of that!" Ann cried excitedly; "I call it a splendid plan! We should be sure to become great friends, as she is about my age. It would be like having a sister almost. Oh, do you think her mother and father would let her come?"

"I believe they would." The doctor glanced from his daughter to his wife, who was looking very serious and thoughtful. "What do you think of my plan, Helen?" he inquired.

"That it requires consideration," she replied gravely; "I daresay it might answer, but then it might not. Don't let us act hastily and afterwards regret it. Let us take time to think the matter over."

"You are quite right, my dear," Dr. Reed agreed. "You and I are a great deal too impulsive, Ann; we need the little mother to keep us in check."

Ann looked disappointed, but only for a minute, and, meeting Mrs. Reed's glance, she smiled. She had perfect confidence that her mother would advise what she considered would be right and for the best.

"I think Ruth is such a pretty name," she said; "and I am sure, from the little you have told us about her, father, that she is a nice girl. I have always longed to have a companion of my own age. Do tell me exactly what she is like in appearance."

"She's about your height and size, and she has regular features, brown eyes, and brown hair. I am afraid that description is not very distinctive. What struck me most in connection with her was the way in which all the others appealed to her about nearly everything; really, she might have had the management of the household, poor child! No wonder her father spoke of her as his right hand!"

"What would he do without her, then?" Mrs. Reed inquired. "Do you think he would be willing to part with her, Andrew?"

"He is the sort of man who would not consider himself in the matter in the least, he would think only of what would be best for his child."

"And the mother?" questioned Mrs. Reed.

"I cannot answer for her," Dr. Reed answered dubiously; "she struck me as an affectionate wife and mother, but I should say she is rather a weak, undecided kind of person. Wyndham married her when she was very young, she had but just left school, I believe. She was an only child, an orphan, and, as she had been left unprovided for in infancy, she had been brought up and educated by an uncle who was only too glad to get her off his hands, as he had a family of his own. So you see she was quite an inexperienced girl at the time she married, with no knowledge whatever of housekeeping or the worth of money, and I fear she is not much wiser on either point now."

"Poor soul," said Mrs. Reed pityingly; "I can understand the sort of woman she is. The circumstances of her life have been against her. I feel very interested in all you have told us about these Wyndhams, Andrew, and, like you, I wish we could help them. We'll decide nothing till Christmas, then we'll see what can be done. You must not think me unsympathetic, but—"

"Oh, mother, father couldn't think you that!" Ann broke in. "Why, you're always quite as eager to help people as he is!"

"Yes, indeed," agreed the doctor, "and much wiser about finding out the best mode to set about doing it. Perhaps my plan will not be feasible, but we'll think it over at any rate, and, as I've heard my mother say when she failed to see her way plainly or was doubtful about the wisdom of any step she contemplated taking, 'We'll just set the matter before the Lord and ask His guidance.'"

"How like dear old Granny to say that!" exclaimed Ann, a tender smile lighting up her face. "Oh, father, I wish you could have persuaded her to pay us a visit!"

"She thinks she has become too old to undertake such a long journey, my dear, and I believe she is right; besides, she is more contented in her own home. Elderly people do not care for change like young ones. She knows how welcome she would be here, but she is never so happy anywhere as at Teymouth. You and the little mother shall go and see her in the summer, Ann, if all's well, as usual, but I don't think she herself will ever leave Devonshire again."

"You do not think her ill, father?" Ann asked anxiously.

"No; but naturally her strength is not what it once was. She said to me that she thought the next journey she would make would be to her long home. That will be as God wills; but I saw she did not wish to leave Teymouth, so of course I refrained from urging her to do so."

Ann's eyes, which she shaded with her hand, were misty with tears, for she was most devotedly attached to her grandmother, and the thought that she might be in failing health caused her a pang of deep grief. Every summer she and her mother went to stay with old Mrs. Reed in the little cottage at Teymouth, which she had inhabited since her husband's death. Granny was a true, noble-hearted woman, though in her young days she had been "only a servant" as some people say—it had not been considered derogatory for the daughters of small farmers to be domestic servants then—and had had no education except what life had taught her.

From her the doctor had inherited many of those qualities which had gained him the respect and confidence of all classes in the prosperous Yorkshire town where he had become a successful surgeon and a well-to-do man; and when, nearly fifteen years previously, with his wife's cordial approval, he had called his infant daughter "Ann," it had been with the earnest hope and prayer that she might grow into as sweet and good a woman as the one after whom she was named.

"I am so glad you have been able to pay your mother this visit, Andrew," Mrs. Reed remarked, after a few minutes' silence, "I am sure she must have been delighted to have you to herself for a few days. I often wish that we lived nearer to her."

"So do I," her husband replied. "Mother spoke very affectionately of you, Helen," he proceeded, "and said how much she enjoyed your long letters, and she told me I was fortunate in my wife. 'She's a real lady, Andrew,' she said, 'if she wasn't she'd be ashamed of your old mother, and, instead of that, she treats me as a daughter would treat a mother, and I love her for it.' And I love her for it, too," he concluded in a tone so soft and low that only Ann caught the words.

"Oh, Andrew!" Mrs. Reed exclaimed, her fair face flushing rosy red. "I shall write to her to-morrow and tell her how well Ann and I consider you looking, she will be glad to hear that."

"I wish poor Wyndham could have a change for a few days," observed the doctor meditatively; "he looked as though he needed it badly. He and his family are on my mind. I shall not rest until I have found some way of helping them. We must put our heads together, Helen, and see what can be done."

His wife assented; and Ann's face brightened as she whispered to her father:—

"Oh, father, I don't think you'll have much difficulty in persuading the little mother to agree to your plan!"