“You'll need this,” said Chris, pushing a clothes-brush and a whisk-broom on to a chair, “and you'll find plenty of water on the stand yonder;” then he came out and closed the door, to the infinite and audible relief of the serving-maid Martha. Indeed but for the all too serious side of the whole affair, it would have been amusing to watch that little maid. So great was her horror, either by education or intuition, of the state of inebriety, that the moment she surmised that at least two of these midnight visitors were bordering on the same, she could conceive of no means strong enough to express her disapproval. Every time she had come anywhere near them she had gathered her skirts about her as though in fear of actual contamination, and with her pretty head high in the air, as she moved away, would look askance over her shoulder as though not at all sure even then of being at a safe distance. Indeed, Chris himself could not quite suppress a smile as he saw the relief expressed in every line of Martha's face at the click of the closing door.
“How did it happen, mother?” asked Mr. Hartley, after a long interval in which no word had been spoken.
“I have not heard yet, Peter; but I don't believe we had better talk. He seems to be growing uneasy. Oh, I do wish Chris would come!”
“Now, don't you get flustered, mother—don't get flustered,” bending over the freshly lighted fire and spreading his hands to its blaze.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Hartley had taken her station at the side of the senseless fellow on the couch and, her old face tense with anxiety, was rubbing the ice-cold hands.
“And now the doctor, Chris, as quick as ever you can,” she said gravely; and Chris, realizing the need for haste, was out of the house before she had finished the sentence, and the gray mare made better time that night into Nuneham than for many a year before.
“You've done splendid, so far. 'Tain't likely a strong-looking fellow like that's going to go under easy.”