“Poor old soul, she can’t be long for this world,” said Oldroyd one day on receiving a message from Lindham, and, mounting Peter, he rode over across the commons to the old cottage.
“Oh, you’ve come at last, then,” said the old woman, raising herself in bed and frowning heavily. “There, don’t you go telling me no lies. I know where you’ve been wasting the parish time as you’re paid for.”
“Wasting the time?” said Oldroyd, laughing.
“Ah, it’s nothing to make fun of. When I told you to take to Miss Lucy, I didn’t mean you to go courting for months, but to marry her and done with it, so as she might be a bit useful, visiting and nursing some o’ the sick folk on your rounds.”
“Why, you dissatisfied old woman,” cried Oldroyd merrily, “I rode over as soon as I got your message.”
“Well, then, why don’t you do me some good at once, and not stand talking. If you knowed the aggynies I suffer, you wouldn’t stand talking. You heered the news?”
“What, about the French?”
“Tchut! What do I know about the French? I mean about my grandbairn.”
“Miss Hayle? No.”
“The captain took her off, and we thought he’d married her, you know, but he didn’t.”