“The walk isn’t too much?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“And old Dulcibella shall follow you early in the day to Draunton—you remember the name of the house?”
“Yes, the Tanzy Well.”
“Quite right, wise little woman, and you know, darling, you must not stir out—quiet as it is, you might be seen; it is only a few hours’ caution, and then we need not care; but I don’t want pursuit, and a scene, and to agitate my poor little fluttered bird more than is avoidable. Even when you look out of the window keep your veil down; and—and just reach the Tanzy House, and do as I say, and you may leave all the rest to me. Wait a moment—who’s here? No—no—nothing. But I had better leave you now—yes, darling—it is wiser—some of the people may be peeping, and I’ll go.”
And so a tumultuous good-night, wild tears, and hopes, and panic, and blessings, and that brief interview was over.
The window was shut, and Alice Maybell in her room—the lovers not to meet again till forty miles away; and with a throbbing heart she lay down, to think and cry, and long for the morning she dreaded.
Morning came, and the breakfast hour, and the old Squire over his cup of coffee and rasher, called for Mrs. Durdin, the housekeeper, and said he—
“Miss Alice, I hear, is ailing this morning; ye can see old Dulcibella, and make out would she like the doctor should look in, and would she like anything nice for breakfast—a slice of the goose-pie, or what? and send down to the town for the doctor if she or old Dulcibella thinks well of it, and if it should be in church time, call him out of his pew, and find out what she’d like to eat or drink;” and with his usual gruff nod he dismissed her.
“I should be very happy to go to the town if you wish, sir,” said Charles Fairfield, desiring, it would seem, to re-establish his character for politeness, “and I’m extremely sorry, I’m sure, that poor Ally—I mean, that Miss Maybell—is so ill.”