People's footsteps are so different, it is often easy to recognize them. This, I think, I should have known anywhere—quick, regular, determined; rather hasty, as if no time could be lost; as if, according to the proverb, it would never “let the grass grow under it.” Crouching lower, I listened; I heard him stop and speak to an old woman, who had been coming up the road towards the village. No words were distinguishable, but the voice—I could not have mistaken it—it is not like our English voices.
What a strange feeling it is, listening to people's steps or voices, when they do not know you are near them. Something like being a ghost, and able to watch them—perhaps watch over them—without its being unnatural or wrong.
He stood talking—I should say, Doctor Urquhart stood talking—for several minutes. The other voice, by its querulousness, I guessed to be poor Mrs. Cartwright's; but it softened by degrees, and then I heard distinctly her earnest “thank'ee, Doctor—God bless'ee, sir,” as he walked away, and vanished over the slope of the hill. She looked after him a minute, and then, turning, toddled on her way.
When I overtook her, which was not for some time, she told me the whole story of her troubles,—and how good Doctor Urquhart had been. Also, the whole story about her poor daughter—at least as much as is known about it. Mrs. Cartwright thinks she is still somewhere in London, and Doctor Urquhart has promised to find her out, if he can. I don't understand much about these sort of dreadful things—Penelope never thought it right to tell us: but I can see that what Doctor Urquhart has said has given great comfort to the mother of unfortunate Lydia.
“Miss,” said the old woman, with the tears running down, “the Doctor's been an angel of goodness to me, and there's many a one in these parts as can say the same—though he be only a stranger, here to-day and gone to-morrow, as one may say. Eh, dear, it'll be an ill day for many a poor body when he goes.”
I am glad I saw him—glad I heard all this. Somehow, hearing of things like this makes one feel quieter.
It does not much matter after all—it does not, indeed! I never wanted anybody to think about me, to care for me—half as much as somebody to look up to—to be satisfied in—to honour and reverence. I can do that—still!
Like a fool, I have been crying again, till I ought, properly, to tear this leaf out, and begin again afresh. No, I will not. Nobody will ever see it, and it does no harm to any human being.
“God bless him,” the old woman said. I might say something of the like sort, too. For he did me a deal of good: he was very kind to me.