That old woman was in a sort of fever that afternoon and the next day, and her temper, Lilly Dogger thought, grew more and more savage as night approached. She had in her pocket a friendly fulsome little letter, which had reached her through the post, announcing an arrival for the night that was now approaching. The coach that changed horses at the “Pied Horse,” was due there at half-past eleven, P.M., but might not be there till twelve, and then there was a long drive to Carwell Grange.
“I’m wore out wi’ them, I’m tired to death; I’m wore off my feet wi’ them; I’m worked like a hoss. ’Twould be well for Mildred Tarnley, I’m thinkin’, she was under the mould wi’ a stone at her head, and shut o’ them all.”
CHAPTER XXV.
LILLY DOGGER IS SENT TO BED.
That night the broad-shouldered child, Lilly Dogger, was up later than usual. An arrear of pots and saucepans to scour, along with customary knives and forks to clean, detained her.
“Bustle, you huzzy, will ye?” cried the harsh voice of old Mildred, who was adjusting the kettle on the kitchen fire, while in the scullery the brown-eyed little girl worked away at the knife-board. A mutton-fat, fixed in a tin sconce on the wall, so as to command both the kitchen and the scullery, economically lighted each, the old woman and her drudge, at her work.
“Yes’m, please,” she said interrogatively, for the noise of her task prevented her hearing distinctly.
“Be alive, I say. It’s gone eleven, you slut; ye should a bin in your bed an hour,” screeched Mildred, and then relapsed into her customary grumble.
“Yes, Mrs. Tarnley, please’m,” answered the little girl, resuming with improved energy.
Drowsy enough was the girl. If there had been a minute’s respite from her task, I think she would have nodded.
“Be them things rubbed up or no, or do you mean to ’a done to-night, huzzy?” cried Mrs. Tarnley, this time so near as to startle her, for she had unawares put her wrinkled head into the scullery. “Stop that for to-night, I say. Leave ’em lay, ye’ll finish in the morning.”