VII
With the dawn of the morning, however, and the few hours’ hurried rest which Edward Rider was able to snatch after his labours, other sentiments arose in his mind. It was quite necessary to see how the unlucky child was at St. Roque’s Cottage, and perhaps what Nettie thought of all that had occurred during her absence. The doctor bethought himself, too, that there might be very natural explanations of the curate’s escort. How else, to be sure, could she have got home on a dark winter night through that lonely road? Perhaps, if he himself had been less impatient and ill-tempered, it might have fallen to his lot to supersede Mr. Wentworth. On the whole, Dr. Rider decided that it was necessary to make one of his earliest calls this morning at St. Roque’s.
It was a foggy frosty day, brightened with a red sun, which threw wintry ruddy rays across the mist. Dr. Rider drew up somewhat nervously at the little Gothic porch. He was taken upstairs to the bedroom where little Freddy lay moaning and feverish. A distant hum came from the other children in the parlour, the door of which, however, was fast closed this morning; and Nettie herself sat by the child’s bedside—Nettie, all alert and vigorous, in the little room, which, homely as its aspect was, displayed even to the doctor’s uninitiated glance a fastidious nicety of arrangement which made it harmonious with that little figure. Nettie was singing childish songs to solace the little invalid’s retirement—the “fox that jumped up on a moonlight night,” the “frog that would a-wooing go”—classic ditties of which the nursery never tires. The doctor, who was not aware that music was one of Nettie’s accomplishments, stopped on the stairs to listen. And indeed she had not a great deal of voice, and still less science, Nettie’s life having been too entirely occupied to leave much room for such studies. Yet somehow her song touched the doctor’s heart. He forgave her entirely that walk with the curate. He went in softly, less impatient than usual with her crazy Quixotism. A child—a sick child especially—was a bearable adjunct to the picture. A woman could be forgiven for such necessary ministrations—actually, to tell the truth, could be forgiven most follies she might happen to do, when one could have her to one’s self, without the intervention of such dreary accessories as Susan and Fred.
“Thank you very much for your care of this child last night, Dr. Edward,” said the prompt Nettie, laying down the large piece of very plain needlework in her hand. “I always said, though you don’t make a fuss about the children, that you were quite to be relied on if anything should happen. He is feverish, but he is not ill; and so long as I tell him stories and keep beside him, Freddy is the best child in the world.”
“More people than Freddy might be willing to be ill under such conditions,” said the doctor, complimentary, but rueful. He felt his patient’s pulse, and prescribed for him with a softened voice. He lingered and looked round the room, which was very bare, yet somehow was not like any of the rooms in his house. How was it?—there were no ornaments about, excepting that tiny little figure with the little head overladen with such a wealth of beautiful hair. The doctor sighed. In this little sacred spot, where she was so clearly at her post—or at least at a post which no other was at hand to take—he could not even resent Nettie’s self-sacrifice. He gave in to her here, with a sigh. “Since you think he is not ill to speak of, will you drive me and the other children into Carlingford, Dr. Edward?” said the courageous Nettie. “It will be a pleasure for them, you know, and I shall be able to do my business without losing so much time; besides, I want to talk to you; I can see you will in your eyes. Go down, please, and talk to Mr. Smith, who has got a headache or something, and wants to see you. You need not trouble yourself seeing Susan, who is cross, of course. I don’t wonder at her being cross; it must be very shocking, you know, to feel one’s self of no use, whatever happens. Thank you; I shall be ready in a minute, as soon as you have done talking to Mr. Smith.”
The doctor went down obediently, and in an unusual flutter of pleasure, to see the master of the cottage—totally indifferent to the ailments of the virtuous
