“Poor girl!” said Oldroyd, sadly.
“Bah! I haven’t patience with her. Got her head turned up at The Warren, being with that girl there; and then, in spite of all I said, and her father said, she must be always thinking of the captain, and breaking her heart when she heard he was going to marry first this one and then that. She got so that at last he had only to hold up his finger and say come, and away she went; and now she’s back in London, left to shift for herself, with lots of fine clothes. She’s writ home to her father for help. But we shall see—we shall see.”
“A scoundrel!” exclaimed Oldroyd.
“Yes, he’s a bad un,” said the old woman, “a reg’lar bad un, but he’ll get his deserts; you see if he don’t. Ben Hayle arn’t Sir John Day up at the Hall. He won’t let my gentleman off so easy; you see if he do. Ah, it’s a strange world, doctor, and I begin to think it gets worse and worse.”
Oldroyd listened to a good deal more of the old lady’s moralising about the state of the world, as he ministered to her “aggynies,” and finally left, after undertaking to call again very soon.
“Mind, you shut the door!” shouted the old woman; “the haps don’t fit well. You must try it after you’ve let go.”
“I’ll mind,” said Oldroyd good-humouredly; and, mounting Peter, he was thoughtfully jogging homeward, when the pony stopped in front of a gate, on which a man was seated—the pony having apparently recognised an old patient, and paused for the doctor to have a chat.
“Do, sir?” said the man, getting down slowly and touching his hat.
“Ah, Hayle, glad to see you looking so strong again.”
“Ay, sir,” said the man, smiling sadly; “you ought to be proud o’ me, and make a show of what you’ve done for me. ’Bout your best job, warn’t I?”