"Now, Uncle Phineas, go you home with Muriel. Tell my wife what has occurred—say, I will come to tea as soon as I can. But I may have some little trouble with my people here. She must not alarm herself."
No, the mother never did. She wasted no time in puerile apprehensions—it was not her nature; she had the rare feminine virtue of never "fidgetting"—at least, externally. What was to be borne—she bore: what was to be done—she did; but she rarely made any "fuss" about either her doings or her sufferings.
To-night, she heard all my explanation; understood it, I think, more clearly than I did—probably from being better acquainted with her husband's plans and fears. She saw at once the position in which he was placed; a grave one, to judge by her countenance.
"Then you think John is right?"
"Of course I do."
I had not meant it as a question, or even a doubt. But it was pleasant to hear her thus answer. For, as I have said, Ursula was not a woman to be led blindfold, even by her husband. Sometimes they differed on minor points, and talked their differences lovingly out; but on any great question she had always this safe trust in him—that if one were right and the other wrong, the erring one was much more likely to be herself than John.
She said no more; but put the children to bed; then came downstairs with her bonnet on.
"Will you come with me, Phineas? Or are you too tired? I am going down to the mill."
She started, walking quickly—yet not so quick but that on the slope of the common she stooped to pick up a crying child, and send it home to its mother in Enderley village.
It was almost dark, and we met no one else except a young man, whom I had occasionally seen about of evenings. He was rather odd looking, being invariably muffled up in a large cloak and a foreign sort of hat.