Very well, I will attend the young gentleman. Oh dear, oh dear! I am for ever being sent for, for ever being sent for—day and night alike! This time it is night, and though the street lamps have long ago been put out, I have to trot away all the same. Thus I often make mistakes, old woman.
[Exit through the door on the left.
The Old Woman.
Already one doctor has been to attend the boy, without doing him any good, and now here comes another one—to do him about as little, I reckon. Well, what of that? The boy will die, and we shall go on living without him—that is all. I shall go on sitting in my kitchen as before, without a soul to keep me company, and think; and one room the more will be left empty for the rats to scamper and squeak in. Well, let them scamper, and let them squeak: it is all one to me.
Do you want to know why that ruffian flung the stone at the young master's head? Nay, I do not know. How should I know why men want to kill one another? All I know is that a man threw a stone, and then hid himself in a dark corner, and that a boy was struck by that stone, and now lies a-dying. They say that the young master was good and kind to poor people. Maybe. I do not know. It is all one to me. Kind or cruel, old or young, alive or dead—folk are all one to me. So long as I am paid my wages I shall stop where I am; and when those wages cease I shall move elsewhere and cook for some one else, or, maybe, give up working altogether, for I am growing old, and sometimes mistake salt for sugar. Or perhaps I shall be discharged, and told to go about my business, so that they may get another cook in my place. Well, what of that? I shall just go—that is all. Every place is the same to me—here, there, or anywhere; every place is the same to me.
[Re-enter the Doctor, accompanied by the Man and his Wife. Both the latter are now grown old and grey. Yet, though the Man walks with his body slightly bent, he holds his head (to which his shaggy, upstanding hair and long beard impart something of a leonine appearance) erect. Likewise, though he has to don a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles whenever he wishes to observe an object closely, his glance still flashes keenly and directly from under his grey eyebrows.]
The Doctor.
Your son has fallen into a deep sleep, and you must not wake him. Perhaps it is the best sign at present. But you yourselves ought to take some rest. People who have time to sleep should use it, and not waste the precious hours of the night in walking about and talking, as I have to do.
The Man's Wife.
We thank you, doctor. You have greatly reassured us. Are you coming again to-morrow?