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.

"Paid by Tozer." What had been paid by Tozer? What had her grandfather to do with it. Could it be he who had lent money to Mr. May? Then Phoebe resolved, with a glow on her face, he should forgive his debtors. She went in with her mind fully made up, whatever might happen, to be the champion of the sufferer, the saviour of the family. This would show them that their kindness had been appreciated. This would prove even to Reginald that, though she would not sacrifice her own prospects by marrying him, yet that she was grateful to him, to the bottom of her heart. Her mind was full of generous ardour as she went in. She knew her power; her grandfather had never yet refused her anything, never resisted her, and it did not seem likely that he should begin now.

Mrs. Tozer was by herself in the parlour, dozing over the fire. She woke up with a little start when Phoebe came in and smiled at the sight of her.

"I didn't expect as you'd have come so soon," she said; "you've broke up early to-night, darling. Couldn't you have no music? I didn't look for you for an hour or more."

"You know, grandmamma, it is Mr. Copperhead who teases me most for music, and he is not here."

"Yes, yes, _I_ know," said the old lady, nodding her head with many smiles. "I know a deal more about it than you think for, Phoebe, and don't you think as I disapprove, for it's quite the other way. But you won't tell me as there ain't others as cares for music as well as young Copperhead. I've seen one as couldn't take his eyes off of you while you were playing."

"Hush, grandmamma; the others like music for music's sake, or perhaps for my sake; but Mr Copperhead likes it for his own sake, and therefore he is the one who insists upon it. But this is not the reason why I have come home so soon. Mr. May has been taken suddenly ill."

"Lord bless us!" cried Mrs. Tozer, "deary, deary me! I'm very sorry, poor gentleman, I hope it ain't anything serious. Though he's a church parson, he's a very civil-spoken man, and I see his children drag him into his own house one day as me and Tozer was pa.s.sing. I said to Tozer at the time, you take my word, whatever folks say, a man as lets his children pull him about like that ain't a bad one. And so he's ill, poor man! Is there anything as we can do to help, my dear? They ain't rich, and they've been as kind to you as if you'd been one of their own."

"I thought that would be the first thing you would ask me," said Phoebe gratefully, giving her a kiss--"dear grandmamma, it is like your kind heart--and I ran off to see that you were quite well and comfortable, thinking perhaps if you did not want me I might go back to poor Ursula for the night."

To hear her granddaughter call Miss May by her Christian name was in itself a pleasure to Mrs. Tozer. She gave Phoebe a hug. "So you shall, my darling, and as for a bottle of good wine or that, anything as is in the house, you know you're welcome to it. You go and talk to your grandfather; I'm as comfortable as I can be, and if you'd like to run back to that poor child--"

"Not before you are in bed," said Phoebe, "but if you please I'll go and talk to grandpapa as you said. There are things in which a man may be of use."

"To be sure," said Mrs. Tozer, doubtfully; "your grandfather ain't a man as is much good in sickness; but I won't say as there ain't some things--"

"Yes, grandmamma, I'll take your advice and run and talk to him; and by the time I come back you will be ready for bed."

"Do, my dear," said Mrs. Tozer. She was very comfortable, and did not care to move just then, and, as Phoebe went away, looked after her with dreamy satisfaction. "Bless her! there ain't her match in Carlingford, and the gentlefolks sees it," said Mrs. Tozer to herself. But she had no idea how Phoebe's heart was beating as she went along the dimly-lighted pa.s.sage, which led to a small room fitted up by Tozer for himself. She heard voices in earnest talk as she approached, but this made her only the more eager to go in, and see for herself what was going on. There could be no doubt, she felt sure of it, that the discussion here had some connection with the calamity _there_. What it was she had not the slightest idea; but that somehow the two were connected she felt certain. The voices were loud as she approached the door.

"I'll find out who done it, and I'll punish him--as sure as that's my name, though I never put it on that there paper," Tozer was saying.

Phoebe opened the door boldly, and went in. She had never seen her grandfather look so unlike himself. The knot of the big white neckerchief round his neck was pushed away, his eyes were red, giving out strange lights of pa.s.sion. He was standing in front of the fireplace gesticulating wildly. Though it was now April and the weather very mild and genial, there were still fires in the Tozer sitting-rooms, and as the windows were carefully shut, Phoebe felt the atmosphere stifling. The other person in the room was a serious, large man, whom she had already seen more than once; one of the chief clerks in the bank where Tozer kept his account, who had an old acquaintance with the b.u.t.terman, and who was in the habit of coming when the bank had anything to say to so sure a customer about rates of investment or the value of money. He was seated at one side of the fire, looking very grave and shaking his head as the other spoke.

"That is very true, and I don't say anything against it. But, Mr. Tozer, I can't help thinking there's some one else in it than Cotsdean."

"What one else? what is the good of coming here to me with a pack of nonsense? He's a poor needy creature as hasn't a penny to bless himself with, a lot of children, and a wife as drinks. Don't talk to me of some one else. That's the sort of man as does all the mischief. What, Phoebe!

run away to your grandmother, I don't want you here."

"I am very sorry to interrupt you, grandpapa. Mayn't I stay? I have something to say to you--"

Tozer turned round and looked at her eagerly. Partly his own fancy, and partly his wife's more enlightened observations, had made him aware that it was possible that Phoebe might one day have something very interesting to reveal. So her words roused him even in the midst of his pre-occupation. He looked at her for a second, then he waved his hand and said,

"I'm busy; go away, my dear, go away; I can't talk to you now."

Phoebe gave the visitor a look which perplexed him; but which meant, if he could but have read it, an earnest entreaty to him to go away. She said to herself, impatiently, that he would have understood had he been a woman; but as it was he only stared with lack-l.u.s.tre eyes. What was she to do?

"Grandpapa," she said, decisively, "it is too late for business to-night. However urgent it may be, you can't do anything to-night. Why, it is nearly ten o'clock, and most people are going to bed. See Mr.

----, I mean this gentleman--to-morrow morning the first thing; for you know, however anxious you may be, you can't do anything to-night."

"That is true enough," he said, looking with staring eyes from her to his visitor, "and more's the pity. What had to be done should ha' been done to-day. It should have been done to-day, sir, on the spot, not left over night like this, to give the villain time to get away. It's a crime, Phoebe, that's what it is--that's the fact. It's a crime."