‘They're bad times, Matt—times of emergency, you know.’
‘An' durnd yo' think my missis is hevin' a bad time up at th' cottage yonder? I welly think yo' might hurry up a bit, doctor. You'll geet paid for th' job, yo' know. I'm noan afraid o' th' brass.’
Dr. Hale laughed at the importunity of Matt, but knowing the doggedness of the man, somewhat quickened his steps, assuring his impatient companion that all would be well. The doctor soon, however, regretted his easy-going optimism, for on mounting the brow before the cottage, Malachi o' th' Mount's wife met him, and running out towards him, said:
‘Hurry up, doctor; thaa'rt wanted badly, I con tell thee. Hoo's hevin' a bad time on't, and no mistak'.’
It did not take the doctor long to see that his patient was in the throes of a crisis, and with a will he set about his trying work, all the more confident because he knew the two women by his side were experienced hands—hands on whom he could rely in hours of emergency such as the one he was now called to face.
As for Matt, he sat in the silent kitchen with his feet on the fender and an unlighted pipe between his teeth. The morning sun had long since crossed the moors, but its light brought no joy to his eyes—with him, all was darkness. He heard overhead the occasional tread of the doctor's foot, and the movements of the ministering women, while occasionally one of them would steal quietly down for something needed by the patient above. Between these breaks—welcome breaks to Matt—the silence became distressful, and the suspense a burden. Why that hush? What was going on in those fearful pauses? Could they not tell him how Miriam was? Was he not her husband, and had he not a right to know of her who was his own? By what right did the women—good and kind though they were—step in between himself and her whom he loved dearer than life? And as these questions pressed him he rose to climb the stairway and claim a share in ministering to the sufferings of the one who was his own. But when he reached the foot he paused, his nerve forsook him, and he trembled like a leaf beneath the breeze. Straining his ear, he listened, but no sound came save a coaxing and encouraging word from the old nurse, or a brief note of instruction from Dr. Hale. Should he call her by her name? Should he address her as Merry, the pet name which he only addressed to her? He opened his lips, but his tongue lay heavy. He could scarcely move it, and as he moved it in his attempt to speak, he heard its sound as it parted from, or came in contact with, the dry walls of his mouth. How long he could have borne this suspense it would be hard to say, had he not heard his mother's voice at the kitchen-door calling.
‘Is that yo', mother?’ said Matt, dragging himself from the foot of the stairway leading to the chamber above. ‘Is that yo'?’
‘Ey, Matt, whatever's to do wi' thee; aw never see thee look like that afore. Is Miriam bad, or summat?’
‘Nay, mother, they willn't tell me. But go yo' upstairs, and when you've sin for yorsel come daan and tell me.’
Old Deborah took her son's advice, and went upstairs to where the suffering woman lay pale and prostrate. She saw, by a glance at the doctor's face, that he was more than anxious, while the mute signs of the nurse and Malachi o' th' Mount's wife confirmed her worst suspicions.