That night she could scarcely sleep from excitement, and next morning she was ready with her shabby little suitcase long before the time at which the car was to arrive.
She was somewhat uneasy about her uncle’s condition. For several days he had been ailing, and when she had gone in to say goodbye to him before leaving she had thought him looking very ill. He was asleep, but breathing heavily, and there was something in his appearance which vaguely disquieted her.
“I don’t think he’s at all well,” she said to Roper when she came down. “I believe he should have the doctor.”
“I was of the same opinion, miss, and I took the liberty of calling at Dr. Philpot’s when I went in to order your car. But the doctor’s ill. He’s got influenza and is confined to bed. I thought of going on to Dr. Emerson, and then I thought if it’s only influenza that’s wrong with Dr. Philpot we might just as well wait. He’ll likely be about again in a day or two.”
Dr. Philpot was Mr. Averill’s usual attendant. He was a youngish man who had come to the place some three or four years earlier, and who had already built up a reputation for care and skill. The other practitioner, Dr. Emerson, was old and past his work, and had retired in all but name.
Ruth paused in some perplexity.
“That’s very unfortunate. But I think you are right that if it’s only a matter of a day or two we should wait for Dr. Philpot. I hadn’t heard he was ill.”
“Neither had I, miss. He was all right on , for he was out that day to see Mr. Giles.”
“So I understand. How is Mr. Giles today?”
“I haven’t heard this morning, miss, but last night he was far from well. Mrs. Roper is just going up to see if there is anything wanted.”
“I’ll go round to see him on my way to Thirsby,” Ruth decided. “Can I give Mrs. Roper a lift?”
“Thank you, miss, it would be a convenience. I’ll tell her.”
Markham Giles, the entomologist, was their nearest neighbour. He was the son of an old friend of Mr. Averill’s and lived alone in a little cottage half a mile away across the moor. He was a pathetic instance of the wreckage left by the War. Never physically strong, he had been rejected for the earlier army drafts, but when the struggle had dragged out and the standard for recruitment had been lowered he had again volunteered and had got through. He had served in Flanders, had been badly gassed and wounded, and six months later had left the hospitals the shadow of his former self. Being alone in the world and penniless save for his pension, he had headed north to his father’s old friend. A small cottage belonging to Starvel being then vacant, Mr. Averill had offered it to him at a nominal rent. There he had since lived, occupying his time by keeping bees and by studying the insect life of the moor. On this subject he had become somewhat of an authority, and had written articles which had attracted attention in entomological circles. He and Ruth were good friends and she had helped in the capture and arrangement of his specimens.
Some days previously he had developed influenza, and though he did not seem seriously ill, he was not shaking it off. Mrs. Roper had been kind in looking after him and Ruth also had done what she could.
Ten minutes later the two women arrived at the tiny cottage which lay just outside the lip of Starvel Hollow, the big saucer-shaped depression in the moor in the centre of which stood Simon Averill’s house. Markham Giles looked worse than when Ruth had last seen him. He lay with half-closed eyes and seemed too dull and listless to more than notice his visitors. But he feebly thanked them for coming and said he was quite comfortable and wanted nothing.
“If he’s not better by tomorrow, I think you should send for Dr. Emerson,” Ruth declared as she returned to her car.
“I think so, too, miss. Very good, I’ll arrange it. And if he seems bad tonight either John or I will come over and sit with him. I don’t like his look this morning somehow.”
“It’s very good of you, Mrs. Roper. But I expect he’ll be all right.”
“I hope so, miss. Good morning, miss.”
Ruth’s mind was troubled as she turned away. She had always been intensely sorry for Markham Giles, and now she hated leaving him lying there alone. But there was nothing that she could do, and with a half sigh she reentered her vehicle and was driven into Thirsby.
There she spent the morning shopping, packing her purchases in her suitcase. This was followed by a frugal meal at the local tea shop, and then arose the question of how she should spend the hour remaining until train time.
She left her suitcase at the tea shop, and sallied forth. Involuntarily her steps turned towards the church, though she assured herself that under no circumstances would she enter the building. There could, however, be no objection to walking past the gate.
What she would have done eventually if left to herself will never be known, as Fate intervened and arranged her visit for her. Turning a corner she all but ran into Mrs. Oxley, the wife of one of the local solicitors. Mr. Oxley had charge of all Simon Averill’s business, and on his occasional visits to Starvel he had made a point of asking for Ruth and chatting to her in his pleasant cheery way. Mrs. Oxley she had known
