CHAPTER VI.
“AH! PITY! THE LILY IS WITHERED.”
George Greswold left the dairy-garden like a man stricken to death. He felt as if the hand of Fate were on him. It was not his fault that this evil had come upon him, that these poor people whom he had tried to help suffered by his bounty, and were perhaps to die for it. He had done all that human foresight could do; but the blind folly of his servants had stultified his efforts. Nothing in a London slum could have been worse than this evil which had come about in a gentleman’s ornamental dairy, upon premises where money had been lavished to secure the perfection of scientific sanitation.
Mr. Porter murmured some hopeful remark as they went back to the house.
“Don’t talk about it, Porter,” Greswold answered impatiently; “nothing could be worse—nothing. Do all you can for these poor people—your uttermost, mind, your uttermost. Spare neither time nor money. Save them, if you can.”
“You may be assured I shall do my best. There are only three or four very bad cases.”
“Three or four! My God, how horrible! Three or four people murdered by the idiocy of my servants.”
“Joe Stanning—not much chance for him, I’m afraid—and Polly Rainbow.”
“Polly—poor pretty little Polly! O Porter, you must save her! You must perform a miracle, man. That is what genius means in a doctor. The man of genius does something that all other doctors have pronounced impossible. You will have Hutchinson over to-morrow. He may be able to help you.”
“If she live till to-morrow. I’m afraid it’s a question of a few hours.”
George Greswold groaned aloud.