Martha followed him to the back door. "William, maybe she"s lonely.
I"m very tired, but perhaps I"d better go along with you, and cheer her up?" "Oh, no," he called back over his shoulder; "it isn"t necessary." Then he added hastily, "but it"s very kind in you, Martha, to think of it."
"I"d just as lieves," she insisted flushing with pleasure.
He tried to get his thoughts in order as he and Jinny climbed the hill. He knew what, sooner or later, he must say to Mrs. Richie, and he thought with relief, that if she were really ill, he could not say it that day. But the sight of David had brought his duty home to him.
He had thought about it for days, and tried to see some way of escape; but every way was blocked by tradition or religion. Once he had said stumblingly to Dr. Lavendar, that it was wonderful how little harm came to a child from bad surroundings, and held his breath for the reply.
"An innocent child in a bad home," said Dr. Lavendar cheerfully, "always makes me think of a water-lily growing out of the mud."
"Yes!" said the doctor, "the mud doesn"t hurt it."
"Not the lily; but unfortunately, w.i.l.l.y, my boy, every child isn"t a lily. I wouldn"t want to plant one in the mud to see how it would grow, would you?"
And William admitted that he would not.
After that he even put the matter to his wife "Martha, you"re a sensible woman, I"d like to ask you about a case." "Oh, well," said Martha simpering, "I don"t pretend to any very great wisdom, but I do know something about sickness."
"This isn"t sickness; it"s about a child. Do you think a child is susceptible to the influence of an older person who is not of the highest character? If, for instance, the mother was--not good, do you suppose a child would be injured?"
"Not good?" said Martha, horrified. "Oh, William" Somebody in Upper Chester, I suppose?"
"But she is a devoted mother; you couldn"t be more conscientious yourself. So do you think her conduct could do any harm to a child?"
"Oh, w.i.l.l.y! A child in the care of a bad woman? Shocking!"
"Not bad--not bad--" he said faintly.
"Most shocking! Of course a child would be susceptible to such influences."
William drew arabesques on the table-cloth with his fork, "Well, I don"t know--" he began,
"_I_ know!" said Martha, and began to lay down the law. For if Martha prided herself upon anything, besides her common sense, it was the correctness of her views upon the training of children. But she stopped long enough to say, "William, please! the table-cloth." And William put his fork down.
He thought of his wife"s words very often in the next few days. He thought of them when David stood rattling the k.n.o.b of the dining-room door, and saying "Maggie says please come and see Mrs. Richie." He thought of them as Jinny pulled him slowly up the hill.
Sarah was lying in wait for him at the green gate. Maggie had sent for him, she said; and having put the responsibility where it belonged, she gave him what information she could. Mrs. Richie wasn"t well enough to see her brother before he went away on the stage; she wouldn"t eat any breakfast, and she looked like she was dead. And when she (Sarah) had given her a note from Mr. Pryor, she read it and right afterwards kind of fainted away like. An" when she come to, she (Sarah) had said, "Don"t you want the doctor?" An" Mrs. Richie said "No." "But Maggie was scared, Dr. King; and she just sent David for you."
"Quite right," said William King, "Let Mrs. Richie know I am here."
He followed the woman to Helena"s door, and heard the smothered dissenting murmur within; but before Sarah, evidently cowed, could give him Mrs. Richie"s message that she was much obliged, but did not wish--William entered the room. She was lying with her face hidden in her pillows; one soft braid fell across her shoulder, then sagged down and lay along the sheet, crumpled and wrinkled with a restless night.
That braid, with its tendrils of little loose locks, was a curious appeal. She did not turn as he sat down beside her, and he had to lean over to touch her wrist with his quiet fingers.
"I did not send for you," she said in a m.u.f.fled voice; "there is nothing the matter."
"You haven"t had any breakfast," said William King. "Sarah, bring Mrs.
Richie some coffee."
"I don"t want--"
"You must have something to eat."
Helena drew a long, quivering breath; "I wish you would go away. There is nothing the matter with me."
"I can"t go until you feel better, Mrs. Richie."
She was silent. Then she turned a little, gathering up the two long braids so that they fell on each side of her neck and down across her breast; their soft darkness made the pallor of her face more marked.
She was so evidently exhausted that when Sarah brought the coffee, the doctor slipped his hand under her shoulders and lifted her while she drank it.
"Don"t try to talk; I want you to sleep."
"Sleep! I can"t sleep."
"You will," he a.s.sured her.
She lay back on her pillows, and for the first time she looked at him.
"Dr. King, he has quarrelled with me."
William flinched, as though some wound had been touched; then he said, "Don"t talk of it now."
She turned her face sharply away from him, burying it in her pillow.
"Mrs. Richie, you must try to eat something. See, Maggie has sent you some very nice toast."
"I won"t eat. I wish you would go."
There was silence for a moment. Then, suddenly, she cried out, "Well?
What are you going to do, all of you? What did Dr. Lavendar say?"
"Dr. Lavendar doesn"t know anything about it."
"I don"t know why I told you! I was out of my head, I think. And now you despise me."
"I don"t despise you."
She laughed. "Of course you do."
"Mrs. Richie, I"m too weak myself to despise anybody."
"I wish you would go away," she repeated.
"I will; but you must have a sedative first."
"David"s bromide?" she said sarcastically, "A broken finger, or a broken--well, anything. Dr. King--you won"t tell Dr. Lavendar?"
"Tell? What kind of a man do you suppose I am! I wish you would tell him yourself, though."
"Tell him myself?" she gave him another swift look that faltered as her eyes met his. "You are crazy! He would take David away."