“Well?” said Harry, over his shoulder, turning briskly from the window.
“No material change,” replied the doctor. “It’s not a case in which medicine can do much. The most cheering thing about it is that her strength has not given way, but you know it is an anxious case—a very anxious case.”
“I hope they are taking care of the child. Old Dulcibella Crane would be a deal better for that sort of thing than that dry old cake, Mildred Tarnley. But then Ally would half break her heart if ye took old Dulcibella from her, always used to her, you know. And what’s best to be done? It would be bad enough to lose poor Ally, but it would be worse to lose the boy, for though I’m willing to take my share of work for the family, there’s one thing I won’t do, and that’s to marry. I’m past the time, and damn me if I’d take half England and do it. I’d like to manage and nurse the estate for him, and be paid of course, like other fellows, and that’s what would fit my knuckle. But, by Jove, if they kill that boy among them there will be no one to maintain the old name of Wyvern; and kill him they will, if they leave him in the hard hands of that wiry old girl, Mildred Tarnley. She’s a cast-iron old maid, with the devil’s temper, and she has a dozen other things to mind beside, and I know the child will die, and I don’t know anything to advise, damn me if I do.”
“The house is in confusion, and very little attention for the child, certainly,” said Doctor Willett.
“And that damned scarlatina, beyond a doubt, is in the glen there.”
The old doctor shrugged and shook his head.
“I talked to the Governor a bit,”’ said Harry, “thinking he might have the child over to Wyvern, where it would be safe and well looked after, but he hates the whole lot. You know it was a stolen match, and it’s no use trying in that quarter. You’re going now, and I’ll walk a little bit beside you; maybe you’ll think of something, and I haven’t no money, ye may guess, to throw away; but rather than the child shouldn’t thrive I’d make out what would answer.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” said Doctor Willett, looking at him, admiringly. “They certainly have their hands pretty full here, and a little neglect sometimes goes a long way with a child.”
So they walked out together, talking, and when the doctor got on his horse Harry walked beside him part of the way towards Cressley Common.
When he came back to the Grange Harry asked to see old Dulcibella, and he told her, standing on the lobby and talking in whispers,
“The doctor says she’s not able to understand anything as she is at present.”
“Well, ye know she’s wanderin’ just now, but she may clear up a bit for a while, by-and-by.”
“Well, the doctor says she’s not to be told a word that can fret her, and particularly about the child, for he says this is no place for it, and he won’t be answerable for its life if it’s left longer here, and there’s scarlatina and fever all round, and ye have as much as ye can well manage here already, so few as there is, without nursing children; and Doctor Willett says he’ll have it well attended to by a person near Wykeford, and I’ll bring old Mildred over with it to the place this evening, and we’ll get it out o’ reach o’ the sickness that’s goin’.”
“Please God!” said Dulcibella, after a pause.
“Amen,” added Harry, and walked down whistling low, with his hands in his pockets, to tell the same story to old Mildred Tarnley.
“’Tis a pity,” she said, darkly, “the child should be sent away from its home.”
“Especially with scarlet fever and typhus all round,” said Harry.
“And away from its mother,” she continued.
“Much good its mother is to it.”
“Just now she mayn’t be able to do much.”
“Oh! but she can though,” interrupted Harry, “she may give it the fever she’s got, whatever that is.”
“Well, I can’t say nothin’ else but it’s a pity the child should be took away from its natural home, and its own mother,” repeated Mrs. Tarnley.
“And who’s takin’ care o’t now?” demanded Harry.
“Lilly Dogger,” answered she.
“Lilly Dogger! just so; the slut! you said yourself, today, you wouldn’t trust a kitten with!”
Mrs. Tarnley couldn’t deny it. She sniffed and tossed up her chin a little.
“Ye forget, lass, ’twas never a Wyvern fashion nursin’ the babbies at home, wasn’t, nor Charlie, poor fellow! nor Willie, nor none of us. ’Twas a sayin’ with the old folk, and often ye heered it, ‘ one year a nurse, and seven year the worse;’ and we all was tall, well-thriven lads, and lives long, without fever or broken bones or the like, floors us untimely; and, anyhow, the doctor says, so it must be. There’s no one here, wi’ all this sickness in the house, has time to look after it, and the child will just come to grief unless his orders be followed. So stick on your bonnet and roll up the young chap in blankets, and I’ll drive ye over to the place he says. It brings me a bit out o’ my way, but kith and kin, ye know; and I told the doctor if he went to any expense, I’d be answerable to him myself, and I’ll gi’e ye a pound for good luck. So ye see I’m not sich a screw all out as ye took me for.”
“I thank you. Master Harry, and I’ll not deny but ’twas always the way wi’ the family to send out the children to nurse.”
“And what Mr. Charles would ’a done himself if he was alive, as every one of us knows; and for that reason what the lady upstairs would ’a done if she had ’a bin able to talk about anything. I’m sorry I have to drive ye over, but I’ll bring ye back tonight, and ye know I couldn’t drive and manage the babby, and the folk would be wonderin’ when the child set up the pipes in the tax—cart, and I’d soon have the hue-and-cry behind me.”
“Hoot! I wouldn’t allow no such thing as let the poor little thing be druv so, all alone, like a parcel o’ shop goods. No, no. The family’s not come to that yet a bit, I hope,” cried Mrs. Tarnley.
“Gi’e me a lump o’ bread and cheese and a mug o’ beer. I don’t think I ever was here before without a bit and a sup, and it wouldn’t be lucky, ye know, to go without enough to swear by, anyhow; but there’s no hurry, mind—ye needn’t be ready for a good hour to come, for Willett won’t have no nurse there sooner.”
Harry went out and had a talk with Tom Clinton, and smoked his pipe for half an hour; and Tom thought that the young Squire was dull and queerish, and perhaps he was not very well, for he did not eat his bread and cheese, but drank a deal more beer than usual instead.
“Bring a lot o’ lolly-pops and milk, or whatever it likes best, wi’ ye, to keep it quiet. I can’t abide the bawlin’ o’ children.”
Lilly Dogger, with red eyes and an inflamed nose, blubbered heart-broken, and murmured to the baby—lest old Mildred should overhear and blow her up—her leave-takings and endearments, as she held it close in her arms.
Beautiful though to us men, utterly mysterious is the feminine love of babies, Lilly Dogger had led a serene, if not a very cheerful life, at Carwell Grange up to this. But now came this parting, and her peace was shivered.
Old Mildred had now got up, with her threadbare brown cloak, and her grizzly old bonnet, and had arranged the child on her lap; so, at last, all being ready, the tax-cart was in motion.
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