He turned the books restlessly, one after the other, and could not settle to anything. To all my speculations about our sick neighbour, and our pearl of kind-hearted landladies, he only replied in monosyllables; at last he started up and said —
“Phineas, I think I’ll go myself.”
“Where?”
“To fetch Doctor Brown. If Tod is not come in it would be but a common charity. And I know the way.”
“But the dark night?”
“Oh, no matter; the mare will be safer under me than a stranger. And though I have taken good care that the three horses in the tan-yard shall have the journey, turn and turn about; still it’s a good pull from here to Norton Bury, and the mare’s my favourite. I would rather take her myself.”
I smiled at his numerous good reasons for doing such a very simple thing; and agreed that it was right and best he should do it.
“Then shall I call Mrs. Tod and inquire? Or perhaps it might make less fuss just to go and speak to her in the kitchen. Will you, Phineas, or shall I?”
Scarcely waiting my answer, we walked from our parlour into what I called the Debateable Land.
No one was there. We remained several minutes all alone, listening to the groaning overhead.
“That must be Mr. March, John.”
“I hear. Good heavens! how hard for her. And she such a young thing, and alone,” muttered he, as he stood gazing into the dull wood embers of the kitchen fire. I saw he was moved; but the expression on his face was one of pure and holy compassion. That at this moment no less unselfish feeling mingled with it I am sure.
Mrs. Tod appeared at the door leading to the other half of the cottage; she was apparently speaking to Miss March on the staircase. We heard again those clear, quick, decided tones, but subdued to a half-whisper.
“No, Mrs. Tod, I am not sorry you did it — on my father’s account, ’tis best. Tell Mr. — the young gentleman — I forget his name — that I am very much obliged to him.”
“I will, Miss March — stay, he is just here. — Bless us! she has shut the door already. — Won’t you take a seat, Mr. Halifax? I’ll stir up the fire in a minute, Mr. Fletcher. You are always welcome in my kitchen, young gentlemen.” And Mrs. Tod bustled about, well aware what a cosy and cheerful old-fashioned kitchen it was, especially of evenings.
But when John explained the reason of our intrusion there was no end to her pleasure and gratitude. He was the kindest young gentleman that ever lived. — She would tell Miss March so; as, indeed, she had done many a time.
“‘Miss,’ said I to her the very first day I set eyes on you, when I had told her how you came hunting for lodgings —(she often has a chat with me quite freely, being so lonesome-like, and knowing I to be too proud to forget that she’s a born lady)—‘Miss,’ said I, ‘who Mr. Halifax may be I don’t know, but depend upon it he’s a real gentleman.’”
I was the sole amused auditor of this speech, for John had vanished. In a few minutes more he had brought the mare round, and after a word or two with me was clattering down the road.
I wondered whether this time any white-furred wrist stirred the blind to watch him.
John was away a wonderfully short time, and the doctor rode back with him. They parted at the gate, and he came into our parlour, his cheeks all glowing with the ride. He only remarked, “that the autumn nights were getting chill,” and sat down. The kitchen clock struck one.
“You ought to have been in bed hours ago, Phineas. Will you not go? I shall sit up just a little while, to hear how Mr. March is.”
“I should like to hear, too. It is curious the interest that one learns to take in people that are absolute strangers, when shut up together in a lonely place like this, especially when they are in trouble.”
“Ay, that’s it,” said he, quickly. “It’s the solitude, and their being in trouble. Did you hear anything more while I was away?”
“Only that Mr. March was rather better, and everybody had gone to bed except his daughter and Mrs. Tod.”
“Hark! I think that’s the doctor going away. I wonder if one might ask — No! they would think it intrusive. He must be better. But Dr. Brown told me that in one of these paroxysms he might — Oh, that poor young thing!”
“Has she no relatives, no brothers or sisters? Doctor Brown surely knows.”
“I did not like to ask, but I fancy not. However, that’s not my business: my business is to get you off to bed, Phineas Fletcher, as quickly as possible.”
“Wait one minute, John. Let us go and see if we can do anything more.”
“Ay — if we can do anything more,” repeated he, as we again recrossed the boundary-line, and entered the Tod country.
All was quiet there. The kitchen fire burnt brightly, and a cricket sang in merry solitude on the hearth; the groans overhead were stilled, but we heard low talking, and presently stealthy footsteps crept down-stairs. It was Mrs. Tod and Miss March.
We ought to have left the kitchen: I think John muttered something to that effect, and even made a slight movement towards the door; but — I don’t know how it was — we stayed.
She came and stood by the fire, scarcely noticing us. Her fresh cheeks were faded, and she had the weary look of one who has watched for many hours. Some sort of white dimity gown that she wore added to this paleness.
“I think he is better, Mrs. Tod — decidedly better,” said she, speaking quickly. “You ought to go to bed now. Let all the house be quiet. I hope you told Mr. — Oh —”
She saw us, stopped, and for the moment the faintest tinge of her roses returned. Presently she acknowledged us, with a slight bend.
John came forward. I had expected some awkwardness on his part; but no — he was thinking too little of himself for that. His demeanour — earnest, gentle, kind — was the sublimation of all manly courtesy.
“I hope, madam”— young men used the deferential word in those days always —“I do hope that Mr. March is better. We were unwilling to retire until we had heard.”
“Thank you! My father is much better. You are very kind,” said Miss March, with a maidenly dropping of the eyes.
“Indeed he is kind,” broke in the warm-hearted Mrs. Tod. “He rode all the way to S— — his own self, to fetch the doctor.”
“Did you, sir? I thought you only lent your horse.”
“Oh! I like a night-ride. And you are sure, madam, that your father is better? Is there nothing else I can do for you?”
His sweet, grave manner, so much graver and older than his years, softened too with that quiet deference which marked at once the man who reverenced all women, simply for their womanhood — seemed entirely to reassure the young lady. This, and her own frankness of character, made her forget, as she apparently did, the fact that she
