“must have mistaken the date
presented to-day,
paid by Tozer,”
was what she read. She could not believe her eyes. What transactions could there be between her grandfather and Mr. May? She secured the scrap of paper, furtively putting it into her pocket. It was better to say nothing either to the doctor, or any one else, of anything so utterly incomprehensible. It oppressed Phœbe with a sense of mystery and of personal connection with the mystery, which even her self-possession could scarcely bear up against. She went into the kitchen after Betsy, avowedly in anxious concern for the boiling of the kettle.
“Hot water is good for everything,” said Phœbe; “mamma says a hot bath is the best of remedies. Did Mr. May have anything—to worry him, Betsy? I suppose it is only fatigue, and that he has taken too long a walk.”
“I don't believe in the long walk, Miss,” said Betsy, “it's that Cotsdean as is always a-tormenting with his dirty letters. When that man comes bothering here, master is always put out.”
“Cotsdean? I don't know the name.”
“Don't say nothing, Miss,” said Betsy, sinking her voice, “but you take my word it's money. Money's at the bottom of everything. It's something, as sure as you're alive, as master has got to pay. I've been a deal with gentlefolks,” added Betsy, “and ne'er a one of them can abide that.”