Part 38 (1/2)
A presentiment of pain stole over him. He gave Betsy a nod of dismissal, and went on with what he was doing. After he had finished, he took up the little note from the table with a look of disgust. It was badly scrawled, badly folded, and dirty. Thank Heaven, Cotsdean's communications would soon be over now.
Janey had proposed a round game upstairs. They were all humble in their desire to conciliate that young despot. Reginald got the cards, and Northcote put chairs round the table. He placed Ursula next to himself, which was a consolation, and sat down by her, close to her, though not a word, except of the most commonplace kind, could be said.
Just then--what was it? an indescribable thrill through the house, the sound of a heavy fall. They all started up from their seats to hear what it was. Then Ursula, with a cry of apprehension, rushed downstairs, and the others after her. Betsy, alarmed, had come out of the kitchen, followed by her a.s.sistant, and was standing frightened, but irresolute; for Mr. May was not a man to be disturbed with impunity. And this might be nothing--the falling of a chair or a table, and nothing more.
”What is it?” cried Ursula, in an anxious whisper.
She was the leader in the emergency, for even Reginald held back. Then, after a moment's pause, she opened the door, and with a little cry rushed in. It was, as they feared, Mr. May who had fallen; but he had so far recovered himself as to be able to make efforts to rise. His face was towards them. It was very pale, of a livid colour, and covered with moisture, great beads standing on his forehead. He smiled vaguely when he saw the circle of faces.
”Nothing--nothing--a faintness,” he faltered, making again an effort to rise.
”What is it, papa? Oh, what's the matter?” cried Janey, rus.h.i.+ng at him and seizing him by the arm. ”Get up! get up! what will people think? Oh, Ursula, how queer he looks, and he feels so heavy. Oh, please get up, papa!”
”Go away,” said Mr. May, ”go away. It is--a faintness. I am very well where I am--”
But he did not resist when Reginald and Northcote lifted him from the floor. He had a piece of paper tightly clasped in his hand. He gave them a strange suspicious look all round, and shrank when his eyes fell upon Phoebe. ”Don't let her know,” he said. ”Take me away, take me away.”
”Reginald will take you upstairs, papa--to your room--to bed; you ought to go to bed. It is the long walk that has worn you out. Oh, Reginald, don't contradict him, let him go where he pleases. Oh, papa, where _are_ you going?” cried Ursula, ”the other way; you want to go to bed.”
”This way, take me--somewhere,” said the sufferer; though he could not stand he made a step, staggering between them, and an effort to push towards the hall door, and when they directed him in the other direction to the staircase which led to his room, he struggled feebly yet violently with them. ”No, no, no, not there!” he cried. The sudden confusion, dismay, and alarm into which the family was plunged, the strange sense of a catastrophe that came upon them, cannot be told.
Ursula, calling out all the time that they were not to contradict him, insisted imperiously with words and gestures that he should be taken upstairs. Janey, altogether overcome, sat down on the lower steps of the staircase and cried. Reginald almost as pale as his father, and not saying a word, urged him towards the stairs. To get him up to his room, resisting as well as he could, and moaning inarticulate remonstrances all the way, was no easy business. As the procession toiled along Phoebe was left below, the only one in possession of her faculties. She sent the housemaid hurriedly off for the doctor, and despatched Betsy to the kitchen.
”Hot water is always wanted,” said Phoebe; ”see that you have enough in case he should require a bath.”
Then with her usual decision she stepped back into the study. It was not vulgar curiosity which was in Phoebe's mind, nor did it occur to her that she had no right to investigate Mr. May's private affairs. If she could find what had done it, would not that be a great matter, something to tell the doctor, to throw light on so mysterious a seizure? Several bits of torn paper were lying on the floor; but only one of these was big enough to contain any information. It was torn in a kind of triangular shape, and contained a corner of a letter, a section of three lines,
”must have mistaken the date presented to-day, paid by Tozer,”
was what she read. She could not believe her eyes. What transactions could there be between her grandfather and Mr. May? She secured the sc.r.a.p of paper, furtively putting it into her pocket. It was better to say nothing either to the doctor, or any one else, of anything so utterly incomprehensible. It oppressed Phoebe with a sense of mystery and of personal connection with the mystery, which even her self-possession could scarcely bear up against. She went into the kitchen after Betsy, avowedly in anxious concern for the boiling of the kettle.
”Hot water is good for everything,” said Phoebe; ”mamma says a hot bath is the best of remedies. Did Mr. May have anything--to worry him, Betsy?
I suppose it is only fatigue, and that he has taken too long a walk.”
”I don't believe in the long walk, Miss,” said Betsy, ”it's that Cotsdean as is always a-tormenting with his dirty letters. When that man comes bothering here, master is always put out.”
”Cotsdean? I don't know the name.”
”Don't say nothing, Miss,” said Betsy, sinking her voice, ”but you take my word it's money. Money's at the bottom of everything. It's something, as sure as you're alive, as master has got to pay. I've been a deal with gentlefolks,” added Betsy, ”and ne'er a one of them can abide that.”
CHAPTER XL.
THE SINNED-AGAINST.
Phoebe's mind was full of many and somewhat agitating thoughts. She went upstairs with a restless haste, which she would have been the first to condemn, to the room where the others were congregated, when they had laid Mr. May on his bed with no small difficulty, and were now consulting what to do. Ursula had fallen a little from the position of command she had taken up. To get him to bed, to send for the doctor, these were evident practical steps to take; but after having done these she was bewildered and fell back upon her advisers.
”We can't do anything, we can only wait and watch him,” Reginald was saying, as Phoebe, herself unseen, looked in at the anxious party; and without asking any question she turned and went downstairs again, and hastily putting on her shawl and hat, went out, shutting the door softly, and ran home on the shady side of Grange Lane, where n.o.body could see her. It was a very quiet road, and she was not disturbed by any unreasonable alarms. It was still early when she got home, earlier than usual, and her intention was not to stay there at all, but to go back again and offer her a.s.sistance to Ursula, for whom she had left a message to this effect. Phoebe was full of genuine regard and friendliness towards the Mays.
She felt that she had obligations to all of them, to the parson-father for submitting to her presence, nay, encouraging it, and to Ursula for receiving her with that affectionate fervour of friends.h.i.+p which had completely changed the tenor of Phoebe's life at Carlingford. She was obliged to them, and she knew that she was obliged to them. How different these three months would have been but for the Parsonage; what a heavy leaden-coloured existence without variety and without interest she must have lived; whereas it had gone by like a summer day, full of real life, of multiplied interests, of everything that it was most desirable to have. Not at home and in London could she have had the advantages she had enjoyed here. Phoebe was sensible enough--or perhaps we might use a less complimentary word--worldly enough, to count within those manifest benefits the advantage of seeing more of Clarence Copperhead, and of drawing him within the charmed circle of her influence, and she was grateful to the Mays, for this was their doing.
And then, on the other hand, quite a different thing, her heart was touched and softened with grat.i.tude to Reginald for loving her; of all her grat.i.tudes, perhaps this indeed was the most truly felt. They had given her unbounded kindness, friendliness, everything that is most sweet to the solitary; and over and above, as if these were not enough, they had made her the exquisite present of a heart, the best thing that can be given or received by man. Phoebe felt herself penetrated with grat.i.tude for all this, and she resolved that, if anything she could do could benefit the Mays, the effort on her part should not be wanting.