“I fancy not. She niver had th’ look o’ one as war going to mend, an’ I’ve seen many a case i’ my time. Now, doctor, turn about. There’s the rest o’ the dale to think of, an’ ye’ll not better aught by seeking risks.”
She told him of the burial, of Reuben’s help, of their resolve to save Garth, so far as their own endurance went, from the scourge that lay so close about it. She spoke of these matters as of such usual tasks as cattle-milking or taking corn to the poultry-yard; there was no sense of heroism behind her quiet statement of the facts.
The doctor ceased fumbling with the rusty gate-catch. “I always thought you had sense enough for three, and now I know it. Of course, I should be a fool—a bit of a knave, too—to go in when there’s nothing to be done.”
Widow Mathewson could not restrain the pride—grim enough, but clean and honest—which had given her strength to meet the years of trouble. There was no malice in her tone, no unfriendliness. “They allus said i’ Garth that we kept ourselves to ourselves up here. Well, we did while we were i’ health, doctor; tell them we’ll do no less, now we’re i’ trouble.”
The doctor nodded, gave a quick inquiring glance at Reuben from under his shaggy eyebrows, and rode forward along the ridge of the moor.
“I must notify the death for them,” he thought, as he jogged along. “They’ll never think of the need for it, so I must. Well, I’ve not seen the lass, and it will be irregular, to be sure; but Lord knows they ask few questions when it’s a fever case. Soonest hidden away out of sight, the better folk are pleased these days.”
Then he fell to thinking of Reuben Gaunt. Mrs. Mathewson had made it plain that Reuben entered the farm with knowledge of the danger, and that he chose to stay rather than leave her friendless. The doctor, during his years of rough intercourse with many people, had found less courage in the face of death than he cared to admit; he himself was as hardened against fear, as he was against exposure and fatigue, and he grew impatient when weaker men showed signs of panic.
“He knew what it meant when he stepped into Ghyll,” he muttered. “Well, well, I’ve been mistaken in Gaunt, it seems.”
At the end of his day’s round he was riding slowly down the village—his stout nag as wearied with the heat as himself—when he met Cilla of the Good Intent, and reined up.
“You’re the only cool thing I’ve seen to-day,” he declared, with bluff gallantry. “Bless me, Cilla, how d’ye contrive it? I was never one to flatter, but you put me in mind of a spring flower peeping out of a hedgerow. It is not spring, child, and primroses are over for this year, and the heat, I tell you, is appalling.”