“Very like I did,” said Mrs Pullet, “for you remember when I said things, better than I can remember myself. He’s got a wonderful memory, Pullet has,” she continued, looking pathetically at her sister. “I should be poorly off if he was to have a stroke, for he always remembers when I’ve got to take my doctor’s stuff; and I’m taking three sorts now.”
“There’s the ‘pills as before’ every other night, and the new drops at eleven and four, and the ’fervescing mixture ‘when agreeable,’” rehearsed Mr Pullet, with a punctuation determined by a lozenge on his tongue.
“Ah, perhaps it ’ud be better for sister Glegg if she’d go to the doctor sometimes, instead o’ chewing Turkey rhubarb whenever there’s anything the matter with her,” said Mrs Tulliver, who naturally saw the wide subject of medicine chiefly in relation to Mrs Glegg.
“It’s dreadful to think on,” said aunt Pullet, raising her hands and letting them fall again, “people playing with their own insides in that way! And it’s flying i’ the face o’ Providence; for what are the doctors for, if we aren’t to call ’em in? And when folks have got the money to pay for a doctor, it isn’t respectable, as I’ve told Jane many a time. I’m ashamed of acquaintance knowing it.”
“Well, we’ve no call to be ashamed,” said Mr Pullet, “for Doctor Turnbull hasn’t got such another patient as you i’ this parish, now old Mrs Sutton’s gone.”
“Pullet keeps all my physic-bottles, did you know, Bessy?” said Mrs Pullet. “He won’t have one sold. He says it’s nothing but right folks should see ’em when I’m gone. They fill two o’ the long store-room shelves a’ready; but,” she added, beginning to cry a little, “it’s well if they ever fill three. I may go before I’ve made up the dozen o’ these last sizes. The pill-boxes are in the closet in my room,—you’ll remember that, sister,—but there’s nothing to show for the boluses, if it isn’t the bills.”
“Don’t talk o’ your going, sister,” said Mrs Tulliver; “I should have nobody to stand between me and sister Glegg if you was gone. And there’s nobody but you can get her to make it up with Mr Tulliver, for sister Deane’s never o’ my side, and if she was, it’s not to be looked for as she can speak like them as have got an independent fortin.”
“Well, your husband is awk’ard, you know, Bessy,” said Mrs Pullet, good-naturedly ready to use her deep depression on her sister’s account as well as her own. “He’s never behaved quite so pretty to our family as he should do, and the children take after him,—the boy’s very mischievous, and runs away from his aunts and uncles, and the gell’s rude and brown. It’s your bad luck, and I’m sorry for you, Bessy; for you was allays my favourite sister, and we allays liked the same patterns.”
“I know Tulliver’s hasty, and says odd things,” said Mrs Tulliver, wiping away one small tear from the corner of her eye; “but I’m sure he’s never been the man, since he married me, to object to my making the friends o’ my side o’ the family welcome to the house.”
“I don’t want to make the worst of you, Bessy,” said Mrs Pullet, compassionately, “for I doubt you’ll have trouble enough without that; and your husband’s got that poor sister and her children hanging on him,—and so given to lawing, they say. I doubt he’ll leave you poorly off when he dies. Not as I’d have it said out o’ the family.”