'The sooner the better,' said Charles. 'If we are to do him any good, it must be speedily, or it will be a case of shutting the stable-door. Why not to-morrow?'
The project was thoroughly discussed that evening, but still with the feeling as if it could not be real, and when they parted at night they said,--'We will see how the scheme looks in the morning.'
Charles was still wondering whether it was a dream, when the first thing he heard in the court below his window was-'Here, William, here's a note from my lady for you to take to Dr. Mayerne.'
'They be none of them ill?' answered William's voice.
'O no; my lady has been up this hour, and Mr. Charles has rung his bell. Stop, William, my lady said you were to call at Harris's and bring home a "Bradshaw".'
Reality, indeed, thought Charles, marvelling at his sister, and his elastic spirits throwing him into the project with a sort of enjoyment, partaking of the pleasure of being of use, the spirit of enterprise, and the 'fun' of starting independently on an expedition unknown to all the family.
He met Amabel with a smile that showed both were determined. He undertook to announce the plan to his mother, and she said she would write to tell Mr. Markham that as far as could be reckoned on two such frail people, they would be at Redclyffe the next evening, and he must use his own discretion about giving Mr. Morville the note which she enclosed.
Dr. Mayerne came in time for breakfast, and the letter from Markham was at once given to him.
'A baddish state of things, eh, doctor!' said Charles. 'Well, what do you think this lady proposes? To set off forthwith, both of us, to take charge of him. What do you think of that, Dr. Mayerne?'
'I should say it was the only chance for him,' said the doctor, looking only at the latter. 'Spirits and health reacting on each other, I see it plain enough. Over-worked in parliament, doing nothing in moderation, going down to that gloomy old place, dreaming away by himself, going just the right way to work himself into another attack on the brain, and then he is done for. I don't know that you could do a wiser thing than go to him, for he is no more fit to tell what is good for him than a child.' So spoke the doctor, thinking only of the patient till looking up at the pair he was dismissing to such a charge, the helpless, crippled Charles, unable to cross the room without crutches, and Amabel, her delicate face and fragile figure in her widow's mourning, looking like a thing to be pitied and nursed with the tenderest care, with that young child, too, he broke off and said--'But you don't mean you are in earnest?'