Chapter III

THERE were many who saw through Lady Carnelly's treatment of her young sister-in-law, and pitied the girl. But in her own circle, the colonel's wife reigned supreme, and no one was better able than herself to appreciate and use the advantages she possessed.

"If there is anything wrong, the colonel is the proper person to put it right, and to take care of his sister," was a common remark, but only a whispered one.

Those who made it did not profess to solve the difficulty in which a man may be placed between opposing parties, when one is represented by a wife to whom he is devotedly attached, and the other by a still younger and more beautiful sister, to whom he stands in the place of father.

The colonel, though a brave soldier, was one of the most peace-loving of men in domestic life. Finding that there were jarring elements under his roof, and unable to decide between them, he wisely said as little as possible, and trusted to time for a solution. In the meanwhile, he was, if possible, doubly kind to both.

Of all the lookers-on there was perhaps only one person who thoroughly understood the state of affairs between the sisters-in-law. A keen observer of character, he had quickly formed a just estimate of Lady Carnelly's. He knew her greed of admiration, her jealousy of anything like rivalry, and her affectation of girlish ways. He judged that if Ida had been older and less attractive, she would have been much more acceptable to her brother's wife. The girl's youth and beauty were her offences, and her sensitive nature enabled Lady Carnelly to punish her for them.

It was Dr. Crawford who had arrived at this conclusion, and who chafed under the annoyances to which Ida was subjected even more than she did herself. From the very day of Miss Carnelly's arrival in India, the young doctor had been greatly attracted towards her, as a brave man's sympathies are sure to be in the direction of one who is fighting an unequal battle. He would have been sorry for any girl who was so much in Lady Carnelly's power, and Ida was not likely to rouse less indignation on her behalf because she was young and fair to look upon. His feelings reached a climax most unexpectedly.

One evening Dr. Crawford was a guest at a dinner party, to which he knew Miss Carnelly had been invited. He was also aware, through an incidental remark of the hostess, that she was expected. Yet the colonel and his wife duly arrived, and Ida failed to appear. The doctor inquired after her, and expressed his surprise that she had remained at home, when only a few hours before she had said she would be present.

"I hope Miss Carnelly is not ill," he remarked.

Lady Carnelly shrugged her shoulders. "Ill! Certainly not. There was nothing to prevent her coming that I know of; she simply changed her mind. Would you know why? Ask the wind why it varies. It is quite as easy to account for its doings, as for the whims of my sister-in-law."

She passed on without giving Dr. Crawford an opportunity of making any further comment, but leaving him determined to find out the cause of Ida's absence, if possible, from herself.

Doctors are privileged people, and find it easy to make excuses for a temporary absence. After promising his hostess to return as quickly as possible, Crawford went to the colonel's house.

One of the children was ailing, and, on entering, the doctor quite intended to visit his small patient. But he did not reach the nursery, for, as he passed the door of a room which was almost in darkness, he heard a faint sob. He gave a slight tap, and Ida said, "Come in," thinking it was a servant with lights.

The girl gave a little cry, half of shame, half of gladness, as the doctor entered. She was rejoiced at the sight of a friend's face, yet eager to wipe away the bitter tears which were streaming down her cheeks. She looked so sad and lonely in the dim light, that Dr. Crawford's heart beat fast from a combination of feelings. How could he help trying to comfort her? For what else, indeed, had he come? He could not honestly persuade himself that anxiety about the small patient in the nursery had induced him to leave the bright rooms and cheery companionship of many friends.

"I am afraid you are ill," he said. "What can I do for you?"

Won by the kindly, sympathetic tone, Ida sobbed out her story. "I am not ill, but I am such a baby. I cannot help crying when I am grieved, and Beatrice knows it. She did not want me to go with her and Lindsay to-night, though she knew I had accepted the invitation, so she teased me about the party and—and people who were going, and said what she knew would grieve me, only in a sort of jesting way. I could not tell you her words, and if I did, daresay they would seem of little matter to you. Only they troubled me, and she went on in her provoking way for a long time."

"And then?" said the doctor gently.

"Oh, then I broke down, and cried. I had tried very hard to keep up, but at last I could not bear up any longer. Of course my eyes became quite red; they always do when I cry much, so I could not go out with a face that would tell everybody what a baby I had been. I was dreadfully disappointed." And the poor girl's sobs came again, and stopped her tale.

"What did Lady Carnelly say? Was she sorry?"

"No; she laughed at me for being such a child as to cry about everything or nothing."

"Was your brother present?"

"Lindsay? Oh yes; and he was very sorry to leave me, for I was actually dressed ready. But what could he do? He looked at his wife, as if he wondered whether she could be to blame about my crying."

"The colonel must have seen that Lady Carnelly was teasing and irritating you, though he might not think that she did it on purpose."

"I think not," said Ida frankly; "Beatrice does her teasing in such a pretty way, at least it seems pretty to lookers-on. She laughed, and seemed as bright and pleasant-tempered as possible. She even kissed me, and said she did hope I should soon get over this hysterical tendency, as it so sadly interfered with my enjoyment, and advised me to go straight to bed and have a long sleep. As if I could!" added the girl indignantly, and her tears flowed afresh at the memory of her disappointment.

For a few moments Dr. Crawford was silent, not from lack of words, but lest he should express himself too strongly and be sorry for it afterwards.

He found himself in a very peculiar position. He was Lord Carnelly's friend, trusted beyond most, and privileged to come in and go out of his home almost at will. He had been curious to know the real cause of Miss Carnelly's absence, and he came to the house with the ostensible purpose of seeing the sick child, and with the secret hope of finding that Ida had stayed at home to please the little one, and would be found in the nursery.

All the rest—the interview, the girl's tears and almost childlike confidence in her brother's friend, whom she was accustomed to see daily—had come in without any premeditation on his part, or intentional meddling with family affairs. He could not help expressing his sympathy for Ida, and his indignation at Lady Carnelly's conduct, even while he felt it was hardly loyal to the colonel to interfere.

"Have you ever spoken to your brother about these annoyances?" he asked.

"To Lindsay about his wife? No, I could not. He is always good to me; and really, if I were to try and repeat what Beatrice has said, I could not. The words seem mere nothings, though they grieve me, and they would sound almost ridiculous to other people. Sometimes I think I must be very small-minded to notice them, and that Beatrice does not know the effect of her words and manner upon me."

"Does she not?" muttered Andrew Crawford, between his teeth. "Does the cat know when the mouse is trembling between her paws, before the claws have actually drawn blood?"

"Sometimes I fancy she does find a pleasure in giving me pain; but even if it is so, I must do nothing to cause unpleasantness between my brother and his wife. Better anything than be a mischief-maker. Besides, I have no positive right to be here. It was kind of Beatrice to agree to my coming, for sisters-in-law may be in the way sometimes, you know. I try not to be. Any way, it would be dreadful for me to make a disturbance about—I can hardly tell what. I wish I could have a little house or live in some very quiet place, with older people than Lindsay and Beatrice. I seem to want a mother very badly."

"You do indeed," said the doctor to himself; "and how glad would many a mother be to gather you in her tender arms and comfort you!"

But he did not say this; he wanted to turn the girl's thoughts from her present trouble, so he smiled, and asked if she knew that he had two mothers.

"No, of course not. How can you have two?"

Then he told her how he had been brought from Scotland to Steynes-Cote, and how his real mother still lived at the Manse and his adopted one at Shelverton.

Ida listened with interest, and, as he finished, said, "How could you leave Dr. and Mrs. Fereday alone? Are you quite sure you did right ill coming out to India?"

"What could I do when the regiment was ordered out?" he replied.

"I do not mean that. It was the leaving them at all, when they had taken you to be a son, even though you say they were willing to part with you for a time. But I cannot judge, and I have no right to say this; only, I suppose, people often say words of consent, not because they like to do so, but to please those they love better than themselves, I think."

Ida little guessed how her random shaft went home, and that she had set Andrew Crawford looking back on his own doings, and viewing them in a new light. He said no more of his own affairs, but returned to those of Miss Carnelly.

"You are not likely to leave your brother, I suppose?"

"No. I shall stay with Lindsay and his wife until I am of age, and bear as well as I can. Beatrice and I may grow into great friends before then, perhaps. I am not often so much grieved and disappointed about missing a party as I have felt to-night. You see, I had reckoned on going, and I thought it was too bad of Beatrice. I do not care so much now," added she determinedly, wiping her eyes, and thrusting her handkerchief into her pocket, as if resolved to find no more use for it.

A change had come over the girl. She was no longer lonely. She had been able to unburden her heart to one of whom everybody spoke with respect. She had found a friend and sympathizer who did not think her foolish or babyish on account of those too-ready tears. The world was not such a gloomy place, after all, though it held Lady Carnelly. So, putting aside unpleasant memories, and remembering that even her world held a great many kind and pleasant people, the most prominent figure among whom was Dr. Andrew Crawford, Miss Carnelly smiled once more.

Then the said doctor absolutely lost his head. He had lost his heart before, but had determined to keep that fact a secret until—well! He hardly knew to what date that last word might eventually refer. Ever since Andrew Crawford had been in receipt of a professional income, had not proved unmindful of the claims of his real parents. The Manse had been enriched by the many comforts which he had purchased. The younger boys had been helped, the mother's daily tasks lightened through the assistance rendered by the son who served under tropical skies, but he did not forget those to whom he owed his existence.

The commandment, "Honour thy father and thy mother," was no dead letter to Andrew Crawford. He cheerfully obeyed it, and enjoyed the very self-denial which multiplied comforts in the old home, though he had left it and his parents when he was little more than a child.

Dr. Crawford had twice been home to Steynes-Cote, and would leave the army ere long. Ida's words, by reminding him of what he owed to his adopted parents, had made him feel anxious to hasten the date of his return to England. It was understood that he would become Dr. Fereday's partner and ultimate successor. His uncle was still hale and hearty, too fond of his profession to give it up entirely, and, indeed, Andrew hoped he would be well enough to practise for many a year to come.

In the meanwhile, what could he offer to this young beauty, who had already taken possession of the best he had to give? What would Lord Carnelly think of him, were he to ask his sister, the Honourable Ida Carnelly, to become, at some future period unknown, the wife of a country doctor?

"It would never do," was Crawford's mental answer. And he had hidden his secret along with the image of Ida Carnelly herself, in the innermost chamber of his heart, until the night when he found her lonely, and in tears and trouble. Then it escaped, against his judgment.

It was really Ida's fault that he so far forgot his wise resolutions, but when she said, "I do not care so much now," and, having wiped away her tears, smiled back in his face, the whole tale came out in a torrent of tender words, and the doctor's secret was one no longer. He shared it with Ida, or rather, it must be told, that an exchange was effected. Though the girl's share escaped from quivering lips, and her sweet eyes were again humid and downcast, Andrew Crawford gladly counted it more than a sufficient equivalent for his own.

Need it be said that the hostess looked in vain for the return of her truant guest, whose continued absence from the party caused some comments, many regrets, and a little apprehension?

"One is always apt to feel uneasy when a doctor does not come back at the time expected," said the hostess, who was sorry at losing a favourite guest; "but we must excuse medical men, who are compelled to attend to professional calls at whatever cost of self-denial."

Lady Carnelly might, perhaps, have solved the mystery of the doctor's continued absence, had she cared enough about her sister-in-law's movements to inquire respecting them on her return home. But she had gained her end by keeping Ida there, and the girl was sleeping peacefully long before her brother and his wife came back.

Not now disturbed by the memory of taunting speeches or disappointed hopes, it may be she was dreaming of the new happiness which had come to her in such an unexpected manner, or seeing in a vision the beautiful country home which Dr. Crawford had tried to describe to her, because she wanted to picture his boyish surroundings at Steynes-Cote.

As to the doctor, he was in a mental whirl. His feelings were, by turns, those of delight at the knowledge that his affection for Ida was returned, and wonder as to what he should say to her brother.

He and Lord Carnelly had been such friends, but would their friendship stand the test which he was about to apply to it? That it must be tested without delay he knew, and Andrew Crawford was far too brave and too honest to put off anything which ought to be done at once, whether the task were agreeable or otherwise. Accordingly, he lost no time in seeing Lord Carnelly, and, greatly to the astonishment of that gentleman, told him of his affection for his sister, and that Ida reciprocated-it.

Dr. Crawford was very frank in regard to his position and prospects, and owned that these had for a time kept him silent.

"Perhaps," he added, "you will say I ought not to have spoken to your sister without having acquainted you with my intentions, especially as we have been such friends. I own it, but I can only say that I was last night surprised into speaking. I can hardly tell you how it came about, but you will believe that when I entered your house I never dreamed of opening my heart to Miss Carnelly, still less did I venture to hope that my affection was returned."

"I can do nothing but believe what you tell me, Crawford. I know you are quite incapable of doing anything in an underhand fashion, and your being here to tell your tale so soon proves it. You know how I like and respect you, but I wish you were—"

The colonel hesitated, and Dr. Crawford suggested, "A richer man."

"Well, yes, that is really what I mean. In yourself, you are all that I could wish; but Ida is well-born, attractive, and, I suppose, all things considered, ought to make what the world calls a good match. At present, she is very ignorant of the world, and hardly conscious of her advantages. Before consenting to a definite engagement which might prove of an indefinite length, I want to be sure that she knows her own mind."

"I have said all this to myself," replied the doctor. "Ida is fit to be the wife of a far better and richer man than I am. But in true affection, and an earnest desire to shield her from all harm, and care for her tenderly, I yield to none."

"Crawford, believe me there need be no question of a better man, only of a man better off. You know my guardianship will be at an end when Ida is of age. If her affection should stand the test of the intervening time, I could not stand in the way of your marriage, and I would not if I could. In the meanwhile, it will be better to say nothing to outsiders."

Doctor Crawford was abundantly contented with this assurance, and with warm thanks and a hearty handshake, he left the colonel to his thoughts. His own were all rosy-hued, and he could find room for nothing but bright hopes for the future.