Tirzah did what no native of Uphill would have thought of. She clasped Mrs Carbonel’s hand, threw herself on her knees, and kissed it.
“Thank God, not me,” said Mary, much moved. “But you will give her to God now, and let her be baptised. I think she will live, but it ought to be as God’s child.”
When the curate came in a little later, to hear how the child was, Tirzah allowed him to baptize her privately. It might partly have been the dread of missing the Burial Service, but far more because in this present mood she was ready to do anything for madam.
Even when the neighbours thronged in, and Mrs Spurrell wanted to take the child up, pull off the flour, and anoint her with oil and spirit, she would not hear of it.
“They as saved her shall have their will of her,” said she.
“Saved her! She’ll sleep herself off to death! What’s the good of simple stuff like that, with no sting nor bite in it?” said Nanny Barton.
“Ay,” said Mrs Spurrell, “this ile as my great-aunt gave me, as they said was a white witch, with all her charrums, is right sovereign! Why, I did Jenny Truman’s Sally with it when her arm was burnt.”
“Ay, and you could hear her holler all over the place,” said Tirzah; “and she’ve no use of her arm, poor maid! No, you shan’t touch my child no how.”
Tirzah kept her word, and Mrs Carbonel came every day and doctored the child, and Sophy brought her a doll, which kept her peaceful for hours. The lurcher never barked at them, but seemed to understand their mission. And a wonderful old gipsy grandmother of Tirzah’s, with eyes like needles and cheeks like brown leather, came and muttered charms over the child, and believed her cure was owing to them; but she left a most beautiful basket, white and purple, for a present to the lady.