“I can only recommend one thing, madam—that he should go up to one of the specialists, who will suggest that he should stay in his private infirmary.”
“Well, why not?” said Mrs Mostyn eagerly.
“There is the expense, madam,” said the doctor hesitatingly.
“Expense? Pooh! Fudge! People say I am very mean. Poor old Dunton used to say so, and James Ellis here.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am—” began the bailiff.
“Oh, don’t deny it, James; you know you have. I heard of it over and over again, because I would not agree to some extravagant folly proposed by you or poor old Dunton for the estate or garden.”
“But—”
“Silence! I remember Dunton said I could spend hundreds on new orchids, and stinted him in help; and you were quite angry because I wouldn’t have half-a-mile of new park palings, when the old mossy ones look lovely. But I’m not mean, doctor, when there is a proper need for outlay. Now you go at once and make arrangements for that poor young man to be taken up to town and placed in this institution. Mind, you are to spare no expense. It was my fault that poor Grange lost his sight, and I shall never love my garden again if his eyes are not restored.”
The doctor rose, shook hands, and went away, leaving the bailiff with his mistress, who turned to him with her brow all in puckers.
“Well, James Ellis, I hardly know what to say. It is a dreadful shock, and I don’t like to do anything hastily. If there was a prospect of poor Grange recovering I would wait.”