“Why you comical, prejudiced old woman,” he said, “it is the best thing I can give you.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t. I know better,” cried the old lady. “Don’t tell me. I may be ninety, but I a’n’t lived to ninety without knowing as one physic a’n’t good for everything.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” cried Oldroyd, laughing. “You think I haven’t got the right stuff for you.”
“Ah, it’s nothing to laugh at, young man. I’m not a fool. How could you know what was the matter with me before you come, and so bring the stuff? I a’n’t a cow, as only wants one kind of physic all its life.”
“Nay, I did know what was the matter with you,” cried Oldroyd, taking the poor, prejudiced old things hand, to speak kindly and seriously though with a little politic flattery. “The boy came to me and said you were ill, and I immediately, knowing you as I do, said to myself—now with such a constitution as Mrs Wattley has, there can only be one of two things the matter with her; someone has carelessly left a door or window open, and given her cold; or else she has got a touch of rheumatism.”
“And so you brought physic for a cold,” said the old woman sharply.
“No. I knew you would be too careful to let anyone neglect your doors and windows.”
“That I would,” cried the old lady. “I fetched that Judy back with a flea in her ear only the day afore yesterday. I shouted till she came back and shut my door after her—a slut. She thinks of nothing but young men.”
“You see I was right,” continued Oldroyd. “I felt sure it was not cold, and, on looking out, saw that the wind had got round to the east, so I mixed up his prescription, the best thing there is for rheumatism, and came on at once.”
“Is it as good as the iles, young man?”