“Do you think so?” said Oldroyd, looking rather conscious, as he thought of his prospects, matrimonially and financially.
“Yes, I do think so,” said the old lady tartly, and in a very dictatorial manner. “Look here, young man, there’s little Miss Lucy, who comes to see me now and then. Marry her, and if you behave yourself, perhaps I’ll leave you my cottage and ground. I sha’n’t leave ’em to Judy, for she don’t deserve ’em a bit.”
“Leave them to your relatives, old lady; and suppose we turn back to the rheumatism,” said Oldroyd, half-amused and half-annoyed by his patient’s remarks.
“Ay, we’ll talk about that by-and-by. I want to talk about you. My rheumatics is better a’ready—that’s done me a mint o’ good, young man, and I shouldn’t mind seeing you married, for it would be a deal better for you, and I daresay I should call you in a bit more oftener. What, are you going?”
“Yes; I have the pony waiting, and I must get back.”
“Humph! I didn’t know as you could afford to keep a pony, young man. Why don’t you walk?—keep you better and stronger—and save your money. Ah, well! you may go then; and mind what I said to you. You may as well have the bit of land and Miss Lucy, but you won’t get it yet, so don’t think it. My father was a hundred and two when he died, and I’m only just past ninety, so don’t expect too much.”
“I will not,” said Oldroyd, smiling at the helpless old creature, and thinking how contentedly she bore her fate of living quite alone by the roadside, and with the nearest cottage far away.
“You’ll come and see me to-morrow?” said the old lady, as the doctor stood at the door. “You’re not so busy that you can’t spare time, so don’t you try to tell me that.”
“No, I shall not be too busy,” replied Oldroyd; “I’ll come.”
“And mind you recollect about her. She would just suit you; she nusses so nicely, and—”