Chapter VI

LADY CARNELLY would not have missed having a final fling at her sister-in-law and Andrew Crawford for the world.

"I must say a word before I wash my hands of all responsibility with regard to you, Ida," she said. "Had I been in your confidence, your future would probably be a very different one, and more in accordance with what the sister of Viscount Carnelly had a right to expect. I have always felt that this engagement resulted from a disgraceful subterfuge on your part. Yes," she added, looking straight at the girl, "I daresay you and Dr. Crawford imagined that you deceived me very cleverly at the time, but I saw through the whole thing, and now I presume I must congratulate you on the success of your plot."

Dr. Crawford, equally bewildered and indignant at the sudden attack, said, "You speak in riddles;" when Ida laid her hand on his with a light pressure, and answered for both.

"Beatrice alludes to that night when you found me crying in my loneliness and appointment. You know why I sat there, hiding my trouble as best I might, in the almost darkness, and so does she, though it has often remained pleased her to taunt me with having to deceive her and serve some purpose of my own. Thus far I have been able to treat the accusation with the contempt it merited, and if I could do this when standing alone, I trust, Andrew, with you by my side, I shall not feel less strong."

Ida spoke quietly, standing erect with the dignity of a young queen, as she looked straight at Lady Carnelly. There was even a smile on her face, not of scorn, though she might well have shown it, but rather of amusement, at Lady Carnelly's persistency in repeating slander which she knew to be unfounded.

"Do you accuse me of telling an untruth?" was the angry response.

"I accuse you of nothing, Beatrice. When you first charged me with duplicity, you never believed me guilty of it. By frequent repetition of the charge, you may have persuaded yourself that you are in the right."

"Take your wilful way, Ida," was the irrelevant answer. "I would have given you opportunities and advantages enough. I have a clear conscience, and shall take care that the blame of throwing yourself away rests on the right shoulders. When you have quite made your arrangements, no doubt my husband will be able to inform me. He is in your confidence. I shall wait his pleasure, as I am not accustomed to be consulted."

The colonel gave a sigh of relief when his wife disappeared.

"There," said he, "the matter is settled. You have only to fix the wedding day. Beatrice is not really angry, only she likes to make a fuss."

He was right in one sense. Lady Carnally was not sorry that her beautiful sister-in-law would be removed to an entirely different sphere, and yet there would have been a certain reflected glory to herself as the chaperone of a girl who was so certain to have attracted attention in society.

After the first outburst, Lady Carnelly settled down, and, finding that the marriage was to take place in a month, condescended to give Ida the benefit of her undoubted good taste in choosing her trousseau. She would have led her into a good deal of useless expenditure, but this was quietly overruled by the girl herself.

"More than half the things you suggest would be useless at Shelverton," she said. "I have no wish to make myself conspicuous by the extent and costliness of my wardrobe."

"You owe something to your family, and if I may venture to remind you of the fact," said Lady Carnelly, "to me. In a sense, you are considered to be under my care. I trust you will bear in mind that I should be compromised were you to leave this house with an outfit suitable for a petty tradesman's daughter, but not for the Honourable Ida Carnelly."

"Do not fear, Beatrice. No one who looks at your tasteful dress will blame you if mine should be found wanting."

"I have no anxiety about that, where I am known, Ida, but you are going amongst strangers, and ought at once to take the leading place. You hardly understand how much depends on first impressions. People can only judge of new-comers by externals."

Ida laughed merrily at this. "Then," she said, "I will take care not to overpower the Shelverton people by outside grandeur, lest, on a closer acquaintance, they should find nothing better beyond; beside, position and name go a long way in saving money."

"What do you mean?"

"I learned this in a shop once, when the mistress showed me some pretty imitation lace. I said how like real lace it was, and she answered, 'You may safely wear it, Miss Carnelly, because no one will suspect you of using anything but the real thing.'"

As Ida was to wear the dresses, it was not unreasonable that she should wish to choose for herself, especially as her sister-in-law would scarcely see them again. She said as much, in a good-humoured way, and made her purchases with excellent taste and judgment. Even Lady Carnelly owned this, though she qualified her praise by the remark which followed it.

"It was natural you should have a better idea than I as to how a country doctor's wife ought to dress."

In the face of Ida's moderation, she could hardly persist in making a great display, so the colonel's pocket was less taxed than might have been expected.

Dr. Crawford managed to steal a few hours each week to visit Ida until the close of the month, and then there was a modest wedding, and he took away his fair young bride from her brother's roof.

No one could have shown himself more full of sympathy than Lord Carnelly. He was sorry to part with his sister, and up in the nursery, he knew that the loss of Aunt Ida was causing weeping and wailing amongst the infant Carnellys.

It was not the parting only which caused the gloom on the colonel's face to deepen, after the last wedding guest was gone, and he and his wife were left alone together. He paced the room in silence for some time, then remarked, "I ought to have told Crawford about Ida's money. I should have done but for you, Beatrice. I cannot feel that I have acted quite honourably."

"Nonsense! What does it matter? You told the truth, and nothing but the truth."

"Yes, but not the whole truth. I only said to Crawford that the principal sum would come to Ida when she was twenty-one."

"Well, is not that what your father's will also states?"

"Yes, but it adds, 'Or on her marriage.' Of course, with my consent is implied, for, as her guardian, I could have refused it, and in such a case I should have felt justified in withholding the principal until she was of age. As it is, I know my father intended that his daughter's little fortune should be handed over to her when she married, provided that she became the wife of one whom I could approve. Now I never mentioned the alternative to Crawford, but I ought to have done so, and paid over the five thousand pounds. It is little enough for my father's daughter to take with her as a marriage portion."

"I thought you said you were not prepared to hand over the money immediately," retorted Lady Carnelly in a hard tone.

"Neither am I, unfortunately; but still—"

"Where would have been the use of saying a word about it, then? Really, Lindsay, it seems absurd for you to worry about the mere telling, if you could not follow up the information by fulfilling the conditions. You will pay Ida the interest, and it will be time enough to speak of the principal when Dr. Crawford expects to receive it," was the prompt reply.

Lord Carnelly remained silent, but unconvinced. Conscience spoke more effectually if not so loudly as his wife had done. And beside, there would, he knew, be difficulties in the way of producing the five thousand pounds when the day of payment should arrive. He could only hope that by some means he might then be enabled to give a satisfactory account of his stewardship, and end it at once and for ever.

Dr. Crawford, seated beside his bride in the railway carriage which was conveying them northward, troubled himself not a whit about Ida's fortune. If she had been absolutely penniless, she would have been equally precious to him. His mind was filled with glad but solemn thoughts, as a good man's must needs be, at such a time and after having entered on such responsibilities.

He poured in Ida's attentive ears the details of many a plan for her future comfort and happiness. He tried to interest her on behalf of the poor of Shelverton, by telling her of his aunt's life work, and the love she won on all hands.

"My uncle's hope and prayer for you, Ida darling, were that you might fill just the kind of place at Shelverton that my Aunt Grace did," said he. And then, waxing eloquent, he spoke of her beautiful Christian character, and repeated the message sent to Ida by Dr. Fereday on the last day of his life.

The girl listened, but when he finished there was no reflection from her face of the light that shone in his. On the contrary, she seemed a little disconcerted, or as if she only half understood her husband's meaning.

"You make me half afraid, Andrew," she said. "If Mrs. Fereday was so perfect and so good to everybody, I am sure they will care nothing about me at Shelverton. You see, I have never been used to go about amongst poor people and to cottages, and all that sort of thing. At school, we were always lectured about keeping our own places and not losing our position. We walked two and two, you know, dear, with the eye of a governess always upon us, and looked like this."

Ida put on a demure face and folded her hands primly, then, breaking into a merry laugh, she added, "I do believe poor Miss Ferguson, who was our senior bodyguard, would have fainted if she had seen us speak to an ill-dressed person, to say nothing of her fear that we should catch some dreadful ailment or other if we came in contact with rags."

"I do not suppose you have seen much of the ways and wants of poor folk, my darling; but I have no doubt you are like what my aunt was in this. You have the heart to feel for those in trouble, and the will to relieve it. I believe you could give nothing but a gentle word and a kindly look to all with whom you come in contact, and these are not lightly valued."

"You must not be too sure of that, Andrew; you have only seen my best side. How could I give you anything but loving looks and words when you have brightened my life ever since I knew you?"

The young wife turned a beaming, tender face towards her husband. There could be no doubt of her true love for him. What Dr. Crawford wanted to realize was that his young wife had higher aims and hopes, like his own, and springing from the same source.

He longed to speak of these things to Ida, and was almost angry with himself for the feeling of shyness which came over him whenever he strove to introduce them.

Dr. Crawford's was no uncommon case. Often enough, the Christian is drawn into conversation with a fellow traveller in a railway carriage, or as he walks with some one, hitherto unknown, on the same road. Some word is let fall which acts as a spark to kindle the hearts of the wayfarers into a very glow of Christian love. Their "hearts burn within them," as they talk by the way, and those who have apparently met by chance are loth to part, and would fain put off the moment of farewell. But it is otherwise when those to whom we wish to speak, and whose earthly interests are identical with our own, are always walking side by side with us.

Dr. Crawford had let fall little words now and then, in Ida's hearing, of the kind alluded to, but they had produced no response, no answering word, no lighting up the face with gladness, no sense of communion in holy things. He put this down to shyness, and argued with himself, "If I feel it difficult as yet to speak on these subjects to Ida, it is likely that she will be timid also. The dearest, most precious thoughts ever lie deepest in the heart."

Hence the talk about Aunt Grace and her life of good doing. Hence the words that followed: "My aunt was what every one loved, because she loved her Saviour, and humbly strove to follow His example. You and I have said little about these things, Ida, but I trust they will grow more familiar subjects with us day by day."

Young Mrs. Crawford looked at her husband with wide-open eyes. "Andrew," she said, "you talk as if you thought I ought to be a very religious person. I did not know that—that—" She hesitated, as if unable to express her meaning.

"Were you going to say you did not know that I professed to be a religious man?"

"Not quite that. I have always thought you so good, better than any one I knew; only you never talked of such things before."

"I am ashamed to own that I never did but, dear Ida, let me say it now. If there be anything of goodness in me, it can only be of God's good gift that I have been taught my need as a sinner, and been led to Christ as my only Saviour. Knowing Him as such, how can I help loving Him? Loving Him, how can I help wishing to follow the example of His most holy life?"

In his heart Andrew Crawford thanked God that he had been enabled to say even these few words as a reason for the hope that was in him, and once more he looked at the beautiful face of his young wife for some expression to show that she felt with him.

"I do not quite understand you, Andrew; it seems strange to me to hear you talk in this Way. But though I am not like you, dear, I am not quite a heathen. Would you like to hear me say my Catechism? I believe I can do that yet without missing a single word. Suppose you question me."

Again with that light, musical laugh of hers, Ida placed herself before her husband in the attitude of a schoolgirl ready to repeat a lesson, and waiting to be questioned.

That laugh of Ida's had always before sounded pleasantly in Dr. Crawford's ears, but now it jarred sadly, being out of harmony with his own feelings. It, and the words of his wife, told him only too plainly that, having been fascinated by the fair outside and winsome ways of Ida Carnelly, he had taken more important things for granted, and credited her with higher hopes which had no existence.

Well, it was useless to blame himself now; besides, the doctor's affection for the beautiful, bright girl who had become his wife was far too deeply seated to allow of present regrets. He was abundantly conscious that, even with his actual knowledge of Ida's comparative indifference to those things which he regarded as of the first importance, he should do again as he had done, make her his wife, and trust that the time would come when the difference would no longer exist.

It was as yet early in the honeymoon, but from the day of their marriage Dr. Crawford had always read a portion of Scripture aloud, and knelt in prayer by his wife's side morning and evening.

Ida had said, "It is like school-days coming back again, Andrew. We always had prayers there, but at Lindsay's, we had got out of the way of it."

And she put her white hands before her face almost like a child again, whilst he fervently asked for God's blessing on their marriage, and thanked Him for having given them to each other.

On this particular evening, Dr. Crawford was fated to undergo another shock. He was about to begin his reading, when Ida laid her hand on his, and in a pleading voice said, "Andrew, please do not read that chapter."

"Why not, darling? I chose it because it is so very beautiful, and I thought you would enjoy hearing the sweet words of comfort as I should do the reading. I thought every reader of the Bible must love the fourteenth of St. John."

"I hate it, Andrew. Please do not be shocked," she continued, as she saw the look of pain, almost of horror, on her husband's face. "If you had been made, when at school, to repeat chapters out of the Bible as a punishment for any little breach of discipline or forgetfulness of rules, you would feel as I do. There were certain chapters, quite a number of them, which most of the girls had to learn and repeat in this way at some time or other. They used to be called 'punishment chapters,' and this was one of them. I do believe every girl in the school felt as I do, and learned to hate the very sound of the words that were always associated with privation and punishment. If you had heard them dinned in your ears in every variety of angry or sullen tones, you would never want to listen to them again."

Ida spoke, for her, quite vehemently, and, with a feeling of indescribable pain, her husband closed the Bible and sat still and silent.

His wife sprang towards him, and, clasping her white arms round his neck, burst into tears. "You are angry with me, Andrew; I am very sorry. I could not help it. Forgive me, dear, and please read something else. I did not want you to give up reading altogether, only not to read that. You will think me dreadfully wicked, I know."

"No, my darling wife, only very unfortunate in having been robbed of treasures of comfort and strength and guidance by those who knew not their value, and who were to be pitied for their ignorance also."

He drew the shining head to his breast, and wiped away the tears were flowing down Ida's cheeks.

"We will read, dear, and you shall choose the chapter, lest I make another unfortunate selection."

Crawford turned the leaves of the Bible to and fro for a few moments, and then said, "Read this, Andrew; I always liked it."

He at once complied, and, as he read the touching parables of the "Ninety and Nine" and "The Prodigal Son," he thanked God in his heart that the fifteenth of St. Luke had not been included in the "punishment chapters." ¹

¹ It may seem incredible that any teacher could ever have acted as Ida's is stated to have done, but the writer of this story was told, by a highly intelligent girl of similar age, that owing to the system of giving passages of Scripture to be learned as "punishments" for breaches of school rules, she had learned to dislike the very mention of those chapters. It took years to efface the unfortunate impression thus produced, though in time it passed away.