“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 today,
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 scrap of paper, furtively putting it into her pocket. It was better to say nothing either to the doctor, or anyone 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.”
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 nobody 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 assistance 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 friendship 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 gratitude to Reginald for loving her; of all her gratitudes, perhaps this indeed was the most truly felt. They had given her unbounded kindness,
