Oldroyd moved uneasily in his seat, as he learned how lately Lucy had been there, and that she had occupied the very chair he was in. Then he hastily proceeded to cross-examine the poor old woman about her troubles, every answer he received going to prove that, for an old lady over ninety, Mrs Wattley was about as well preserved and healthy a specimen of humanity as it would be possible to find.
“Ah, well,” said Oldroyd at last, “I daresay I shall be able to give you a little comfort. You’ll have to take some medicine, though.”
“Nay, nay, I want the iles, and I want ’em rubbed in,” cried the old lady. “Nothing ever did me so much good as they iles; and I know what it all means—waiting three or four days afore I gets the medson to take.”
“Now, what is this,” said Oldroyd, smiling; “I have brought it with me.”
As he spoke he took a bottle from the breast of his coat.
“Then it’s pyson, and you’re going to give it to get rid of me, just a cause you parish doctors won’t take the trouble to attend poor people. I know; you want to get rid of me, you do.”
“How can you talk like that? Have I ever neglected you?”
“Well, p’r’aps not so much as him as was here afore you did. He neglecket me shameful. But you’ve got tired of me, and you want to see me put under ground.”
“What makes you say that?” said Oldroyd, laughing.
“’Cause you want me to take that physic as isn’t proper for me.”