Moll o’ Stute’s thrust the men aside. “Go whom,” she said, “yo’re nooan wanted here.” She put her hand into the woman’s bosom. “Gi’ me some brandy,” she said. It was there already, held in Mrs. Schofield’s trembling hand. A little passed the lips and gurgled down the throat. A little more and the potent spirit did its saving work. The white thin hand twitched, the eyes partly opened, then closed again as a faint sigh breathed from the pallid lips.
“Put th’ warming pan i’ th’ best bed, an’ leet a fire upstairs,” commanded Moll. “I’st be wanted afore mornin’ or aw’st be capped.”
“Shall Aleck fetch Dr. Garstang?” ventured Mr. Redfearn.
“Garstang fiddlesticks,” snapped Moll. “This is wark for me, aw tell yo’. There’ll be one more i’ this house bi morn, and happen one less, God save us. But get you gone an’ moither me no more.”
CHAPTER II.
MR. Black did not sleep well that night. He had fevered visions of Alpine crevasses, of St. Bernard dogs and of fair blanched faces set in long dank tresses of clinging hair. He had had, too, before seeking his narrow pallet, a rather bad and disquieting quarter of an hour with his sister, who had demanded in acrid tones to be told what made him so late home. He was losing his character, the irate Priscilla had declared, spending every spare moment at the Hanging Gate, whose landlady everyone knew to be a designing women and openly and unblushingly “widowing.” A nice howdyedo it must be for him, a scholar, to have his name bandied about in every tap-room between Diggle and Greenfield. But she would see Mr Whitelock the vicar of St Chad’s, and perhaps her abandoned brother would take more notice of his spiritual adviser than he did of those that were his own flesh and blood so to speak. But if he meant to go on that gate, drinking and roistering and maybe even worse, she, for one, wouldn’t stand it, and nevermore would she set scrubbing brush to desk and floor or duster to chair, no not if dirt lay so thick, you could write your name in it with your finger—and so forth. Mr. Black had smiled when Mr Whitelock was mentioned, for well he knew the worthy vicar’s cob stopped without hint from rein as it reached the Hanging Gate, and no one knew better than the reverend gentleman the virtues of those comforting liquids Mrs. Schofield reserved for favoured guests. Priscilla, however, had been somewhat mollified and allowed the cauldron of her righteous wrath to simmer down, when her brother told her he had been detained by Mr. Redfearn of Fairbanks, and that she might expect a basket of butter and eggs, with maybe a collop, as a mark of friendship and esteem from Mrs. Redfearn herself.
Mr. Black struggled hard with his early breakfast of porridge and milk, but it was no use. He pushed away bowl and platter and murmuring something about being back in time to open school he seized his beaver, donned frieze coat and made off to the Hanging Gate.
His heart sank within him when he found the door closed though not bolted, and every window shrouded by curtain or blind.
Mrs. Schofield was rocking herself in the chair and looked, as was indeed the case as if she had known no bed that night. There were marks of tears upon her, cheeks, and her glossy hair, was all awry and unkempt.
“Eh, but Mr. Black,” she half sobbed, “but it’s good for sair e’en to see yo’ or any other Christian soul after such a time as aw’ve passed through this very neet that’s passed and gone. Glory be to God. And oh! Mi poor head, if it doesna crack it’s a lucky woman Betty Schofield will be. If it hadn’t been for a cup o’ tay goodness only knows but what aw’d ha’ sunk entirely, and Moll o Stute’s wi’ no more feelin’ nor a stone. But sit yo’ down, sir, an’ drink a dish o’ tea.”