‘And good, too,’ said Miss Cherry, in her soft voice.
‘Good! not so much good. Do you know, I don’t feel comfortable about Mrs. Meredith. I know she’s a nice woman; but, bless my soul, the number of nice women I have known, who have been—no better than they should be! And Cara, you know—Cara is our business, Cherry; we are her nearest relations. I do believe she would be better here. Nobody can say that you are—no better than you should be. You don’t form friendships with men. I daresay that’s all Mrs. Meredith’s sin at bottom.’
‘But that is only,’ said Miss Cherry, composedly, ‘because there are no men to form friendships with. You may laugh, Aunt Charity; but I say quite what I mean. I am not a young girl—neither is Mrs. Meredith. If she is good to my poor brother James, shouldn’t we be grateful? And as for Cara—though Heaven knows how much I would give to have her back again——’
‘Who is that at the door? I won’t see any more people—that woman has put me out for the day. Though I know it is nonsense, I can’t get it out of my head. She is a great deal too fond of being popular. She is——. Whom do you say? Mr. Maxwell? to be sure, it is his day. Well, I suppose he must come in, of course. And just as well; we can ask him, and set it to rest.’
Mr. Maxwell came in, as he had done regularly every week for no one knew how many years. He was redder and rustier, and perhaps a trifle stouter; but that did not show to familiar eyes. Otherwise, the five years which had elapsed since Mrs. Beresford’s death had made no alteration in the doctor. He was on that tableland in the middle of life when five years tell less than at any other period. He came in with the slight bustle which was characteristic of him, and sat down by Miss Charity, and got through quickly that little confidential talk which is necessary between a doctor and his patient, during which Miss Cherry took her big piece of work to the window, and stood there, holding the mass of white wool in her arms, and knitting on, with her back towards the others. When this formula had been gone through she returned to her chair. Her interest in the matter was too great to allow even her aunt to open it. ‘Have you seen my brother James lately?’ she said.
‘Your brother James!’ The question seemed to startle and confuse the doctor. ‘We have seen very little of each other these five years.’
‘Ah! I thought you were not so intimate,’ said Miss Cherry, whom the suspicion had pained. ‘Is there—any reason? I should like so much to know.’
‘Well! I suppose there always is some reason or other. But no—estrangements come by accident constantly, Miss Cherry. I can’t tell what is the reason. I don’t suppose I know. We have drifted apart, that’s all; people do so every day without knowing why.’
‘People know when it begins,’ said Miss Cherry, eagerly; but here she was interrupted by her aunt.
‘Never mind about estrangements. What we want to ask you, Mr. Maxwell, is whether you have seen Cara, little Cara, you remember? and also something about their neighbours. There is Mrs. Meredith, for instance. We hear she sees a great deal of them. Eh! why shouldn’t I tell Mr. Maxwell exactly what we have heard? A doctor isn’t a tale-bearer; he’d lose all his practice in a week. We’ve been disturbed by hearing (especially Cherry; she is more particular than I) something about Mrs. Meredith. You, that know everything, tell us if it is true.’