Chapter I

EVERY inhabitant of Shelverton and its neighbourhood admitted that Dr. Fereday's house and grounds were the prettiest to be seen for many a mile. Larger and grander dwellings there were, but none of these could compare with Steynes-Cote for picturesqueness.

The house was a smaller copy of a fine old half-timbered mansion belonging to his wife's father, in which Mrs. Fereday had spent her girlish days.

At her father's death, it went to a male cousin along with a large portion of the property, but the doctor's wife had a life interest in a compact estate, which brought in a handsome income.

If there had been any young Feredays, this property, and more, would have descended to them. But unfortunately, the doctor and his wife were childless, so Mrs. Fereday's fortune would return to the Steynes at her death. In the meanwhile, the master of Steynes-Cote was an exceptionally well-to-do medical man.

He possessed some private income, was "the doctor" of Shelverton and a wide outlying district, physicked the majority of the poor folk without fee or reward, and had plenty of patients of a class both able and willing to pay him. He was not over-worked, for, though the practice was wholly in his hands, two thoroughly qualified assistants bore the greater share of the burden, and resided under his roof.

Dr. Fereday had built Steynes-Cote in order that when Grace Steyne left her old home to become his wife she might miss no comfort or even luxury to which she had been accustomed. As to Shelverton folk, it was hard to tell whether the doctor, or the sweet gentlewoman who was so liberal with the kitchen physic which supplemented her husband's doses, was more popular amongst them.

It was commonly reported that the village children rejoiced in any ailment which brought Mrs. Fereday to their sick-beds with inquiries and good things, for the childless lady was very tender towards the little people round about Steynes-Cote.

There was one puny pensioner of hers who answered, when Mrs. Fereday wished she might soon be better, "I don't want to, thank you. I like being poorly, 'cause everybody's so good to you when you're ill. Mother's not half so cross, and you come and see me and bring nice things. I'll stop ill a long while, please."

The child looked up with a wan but confiding smile, and wondered that Mrs. Fereday's eyes were wet with tears. The home was a wretched one, and overcrowded with children, who were but little valued in it. As the childless lady turned away, she thought, "What a treasure would even that one little creature be to me, if I could call her my very own!"

Mrs. Fereday was not to be enriched after such a fashion, but she was soon to possess the next best gift, in the shape of an adopted son, though not one of her own kith and kin.

The doctor was a model husband, but during a certain portion of each twenty-four hours, he was accustomed to try his wife's patience rather seriously. This was at breakfast, when he invariably thought fit to absorb his tea, toast, and the "Times" at irregular intervals, during at least an hour.

Like most gentlemen, Dr. Fereday laboured under the delusion that, by taking in supplies of mental and bodily food simultaneously, he economized time.

He was mistaken, for he spent twice as long over his breakfast as anybody else did.

The assistants finished their meal, begged to be excused, and departed, the one to pay a round of visits, the other to await patients in the surgery.

Left alone with her husband, Mrs. Fereday would take a book and prepare to bear him company until he had finished the double process already described.

Not that the doctor needed company, in one sense. If Mrs. Fereday made an allusion to village affairs, she would receive a response relative to doings in Russia. If she asked a question about domestic supplies, she would probably obtain some valuable but totally irrelevant information with regard to the mode by which the national expenditure was to be met—and so on.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Fereday made a point of sitting at table so long as her husband chose to do so, unless summoned away to meet some special domestic difficulty. She knew very well that were her seat left vacant, he would know of and be affected by her absence.

The mere consciousness that his wife was beside him imparted a double relish both to Dr. Fereday's food and the latest intelligence. So Mrs. Fereday sat on until her husband chose to move, though doubtless her chair was occasionally rendered uneasy by the imaginary pins which are said to fill the cushions of those who feel that their presence is needed elsewhere.

Like a true wife, Mrs. Fereday placed her husband's pleasure and convenience first of all, and rejoiced to know that her mere presence added something to the sum of his happiness. Occasionally she would be rewarded by hearing her husband's voice as he read aloud some tit-bit of information for her benefit—a doubtful advantage, under the circumstances. A paragraph from a newspaper, however admirable in itself, mingles with the page of an interesting volume on a totally different subject about as appropriately as would a spoonful of mustard with a dish of strawberries and cream.

When Mrs. Fereday—not having heard a single word—turned to her husband with the face of a person who has been suddenly roused from sleep, and a vague, "Yes, dear," at the moment when he expected a prompt negative, the doctor would smile benevolently, and say, "I see you were not listening, Grace. Never mind, my love; I ought not to have interrupted you."

Dr. Fereday had a way of looking forgivingly at his wife under such circumstances, and making her feel quite guilty and ashamed of herself because she had not sat ready to listen and totally unoccupied, in case he should speak once in a quarter of an hour.

But she never grumbled or accused her husband of being unreasonable. She loved him too well to nag or squabble about trifles. So she would laugh cheerily, and say, "You should have jogged my elbow, Abel. I was almost as deep in my book as you were in your paper."

There was, however, one morning on which Mrs. Fereday did feel unusually anxious for half an hour's quiet talk with her husband before he set out on a professional round. She listened eagerly as the surgery bell sounded from time to time, lest its tone should convey a summons which "the doctor" must answer in person. Were he called away early, she might have no chance of a quiet chat until nightfall.

Dr. Fereday's sister, Agnes, had married a Scotch minister, the Rev. Archibald Crawford, and her already populous nursery had just been further enriched by the arrival of twin boys.

"Actually eight of them now, Grace," the doctor had said, as he laid down his brother-in-law's letter with an expression on his face which hardly gave the idea that he looked upon the new arrivals with approval. "Crawford's income is but small. It is wonderful how Agnes and he make ends meet."

Probably the ends would not have met, but for certain additions quietly made by Mrs. Fereday from her own private income, and other helps by the way, for which the doctor was responsible.

His wife's musings on the morning alluded to were all concerning that overflowing nursery. "More than enough of children at the Manse, more than enough of everything else at Steynes-Cote. Would it not be possible to render matters more equal?"

Mrs. Fereday asked herself this question many times daily, and she now waited the opportunity to put it to the doctor. At last he came to the end of his paper, and leaned back in his chair with a look of satisfaction—always the result of an uninterrupted perusal of the latest news.

"And now, Grace, my dear, have you anything to say before I go out, or any commission that I can execute?"

"Something to say, Abel, if you can spare a few minutes to listen. I have been thinking so much about Agnes and her new babies, and wondering whether we might not take—"

Dr. Fereday started with an air of consternation.

"Not the twins, dear! Don't say you have set your mind on them. If it were one of the elder children that you would like to invite here for an indefinite time, you have only to say the word and take your choice, provided Crawford and Agnes are willing. Better not say 'adopt' in the first instance."

Mrs. Fereday laughed cheerily. "It is not the twins I am hankering after, Abel," she said. "They, poor little tender things, will need a real mother. But I have often thought how nice it would be to have the second boy. He is about twelve years old, a bright, intelligent lad, and I have heard Agnes say that he wants to be a doctor when he is old enough."

"Much he knows what he wants before he is in his teens. But that is of little consequence. If you know what you want, you shall have it, if possible."

"If we do adopt one of your sister's boys, I should like to have Andrew Fereday Crawford. He is called after you. He has a leaning towards your profession, and I doubt whether his parents could bear the expense of educating him for it. He might learn it here, and, should he turn out all that we hope, take a son's place, and become your assistant or partner."

"Do as you like, dear Grace. The lad will be something to enliven you, and, should he come under your care, will be a very fortunate fellow. I should have thought you would prefer a younger to train. He would have seemed more your own if you had started with, say, a three-year-old."

But Mrs. Fereday, while thinking of herself in part, was also planning for others yet more. She would have preferred a "three-year-old," or one younger still, but with sweet unselfishness she proposed to ask for Andrew, because she knew about the lad's longings, and because she wanted her husband to have in him a son who would soon become a bright, intelligent companion for him in his rounds, and be associated with him in his professional pursuits.

So, in due time, Andrew Fereday Crawford came from the overstocked Scotch home to be cared for by his uncle and aunt at Steynes-Cote. He was bright, affectionate, true-hearted, diligent. He made rapid progress in his studies, cheered the once too silent home by his presence, was the means of introducing more young life into the house in the shape of boy companions, and, by his devoted affection to his adopted parents, made them often thank God that they had been moved to take him under their roof and to their hearts.

Years passed on, and Andrew Crawford, having studied diligently, passed his various examinations brilliantly, and stood before his uncle and aunt a fully-fledged doctor, of whose attainments they had cause to be proud.

But who that has done well is satisfied without striving to do more and better? Who that has learned something about a subject which interests him, but wants to increase his knowledge and enlarge his experience?

Andrew Crawford was an enthusiast in his profession, and truly as he loved the dear relatives to whom he owed the position he had attained, he longed for wider experiences than Shelverton would furnish, and to see more of the world beyond, before finally settling down as his uncle's right-hand man.

Dr. Fereday being still in the prime of life and equally kind and reasonable, thought Andrew's desire a very natural one, and resolved to gratify it.

"It will be the better for you, my boy," he said. "I am only forty-eight, and hope to fill my own shoes for a few more years, before slipping them off for you to step into. I should like to keep you here, and so would your aunt, but we will not be selfish. Besides, it seems only the other day since you were a boy, and Shelverton folk cannot all at once forget to call you 'Master Andrew.' As my partner now, you would not take the same position as you would after a few years' absence and practice elsewhere. At Shelverton, you are still a doctor in the bud. You shall go away for a time and return fully blown."

Thus encouraged, Andrew Crawford elected to win his experience in the position of an army doctor, and had only just gone through the necessary preliminaries and received his appointment when the regiment was ordered to India. Then there was a rapid leave-taking, and the young man turned his back upon Steynes-Cote and the dear relatives who had loved him as a son.

This departure was perhaps hardly what Mrs. Fereday calculated upon when she sent for the bright lad from the overcrowded northern manse, and gave him the affection of a mother. But she took care that her last look should be a bright one, her last farewell mingled with a blessing and a prayer for Andrew's happiness. He did not see the after-tears which were shed for him in the quiet of his aunt's chamber, but he judged rightly that many prayers would thence go up to God on his behalf.

A few months after Dr. Crawford's arrival in India the Mutiny broke out, and he went through many experiences which had never entered into his calculations. However, through all that troubled time, he so conducted himself as to win golden opinions, not merely for professional skill, but as a man who was equally gifted and modest, tender-hearted and brave.

The colonel of Crawford's regiment was Viscount Carnelly, and the two were on terms of warm friendship. Thus it happened that when the young orphan sister of the colonel came out to join her only brother and guardian, and to reside under his roof, Dr. Crawford was one of the first to meet and be introduced to the new arrival.

Ida Carnelly was just eighteen when, having completed her education in England, the restoration of order in India enabled her to join her brother and his family. Indeed, through all the time of trouble the colonel's wife and children were in a place of safety, and knew nothing, except by hearsay, of what passed in the disturbed districts, or the horrors which cost the lives of many as delicately nurtured as themselves.

Viscount Carnelly was very anxious to do his duty by the pretty young creature, who looked to him to fill the places both of parents and brother, and from him Ida received a truly affectionate welcome on her arrival. This was, however, scarcely seconded with equal warmth by his wife, a vain and selfish woman, to whom the prospect of chaperoning a beautiful young sister-in-law was anything but agreeable.

Lady Carnelly had various reasons for regretting that Ida would be thrown wholly on her hands. Perhaps the chief of these was that, having been deemed a beauty in her own girlish days, she was still unwilling to yield her claims to admiration in favour of another. And yet she was the mother of six children.

Is there on earth a more pitiable spectacle than that of a young wife and mother, who, with a kind husband and a troop of bright children around her, is still possessed with a craze for admiration; who, not content with the large meed of affection and influence which home ties furnish, sighs at the memories of girlish triumphs, envies her young acquaintances, and is ever hungering after flattery, and striving to attract attention and meaningless compliments to herself?

Yet such a picture is not an uncommon one, and such a character was that of Lady Carnelly. She had been a very beautiful girl, and now, after ten years of married life, she chose to talk and act as if she were still eighteen, instead of being wife, mother, and thirty years of age.

It is needful to tell this much in order to show why Lady Carnelly looked with disfavour on the coming of a sister-in-law, beside whose fresh young loveliness she could only appear what she was—a very handsome matron. So the girl, new from school and ignorant of the world, had to endure many unexpected annoyances, of which her brother little dreamed, at the hands of his vain and foolish wife.