“Midnight. We dare not afore.”
“We’ll be there. How fares thy mother to-day?”
“Why, not over well. She seems but ill at ease. Her hands burn, and she is ever athirst. ’Tis an ill rheum, methinks.”
“Ay, she has caught a bad cold,” said Margaret. “Rose, I’ll tell you what—we’ll come a bit afore midnight, and see if we cannot help you. My master knows a deal touching herbs; he’s well-nigh as good as any apothecary, though I say it, and he’ll compound an herb drink that shall do her good, with God’s blessing, while I help you in the house. What say you? Have I well said?”
“Indeed, Margaret, and I’d be right thankful if you would, for it’ll be hard on Father if he’s neither Mother nor me to do for him—she, sick abed, and me waiting on her.”
“Be sure it will! But I hope it’ll not be so bad as that. Well, then, look you, we’ll shut up the hut and come after you. You haste on to her, and when I’ve got things a bit tidy, and my master’s come from work—he looked to be overtime to-night—we’ll run over to Bentley, and do what we can.”
Rose thanked her again, and went on with increased speed. She found her mother no better, and urged her to go to bed, telling her that Margaret was close at hand. It was now about five in the afternoon.
Alice agreed to this, for she felt almost too poorly to sit up. She went to bed, and Rose flew about the kitchen, getting all finished that she could before Margaret should arrive.
It was Saturday night, and the earliest hours of the Sabbath were to be ushered in by the “reading.” Only a few neighbours were asked, for it was necessary now to be very careful. Half-a-dozen might be invited, as if to supper; but the times when a hundred or more had assembled to hear the Word of God were gone by. Would they ever come again? They dared not begin to read until all prying eyes and ears were likely to be closed in sleep; and the reader’s voice was low, that nobody might be roused next door. Few people could read then, especially among the labouring class, so that, except on these occasions, the poorer Gospellers had no hope of hearing the words of the Lord.
The reading was over, and one after another of the guests stole silently out into the night—black, noiseless shadows, going up the lane into the village, or down it on the way to Thorpe. At length the last was gone except the Thurstons, who offered to stay for the night. John Thurston lay down in the kitchen, and Margaret, finding Alice Mount apparently better, said she would share Rose’s bed.