Theology is not one of the doctor's strong points. Being as a rule much
concerned with the treatment of the body, he expresses himself with
diffidence regarding the ultimate fate of the soul. But on this
occasion he shook his head vigorously, holding the hot thin little hand
in a firm comforting clasp. "You must ask a parson about these things,
my dear, but I am quite sure that no little girls go----but you are
going to get well--cheer up! Eh?"
"Could I ast the young gentleman parson wot plays cricket?" Keturah's
voice was hoarse and eager.
"The very man--couldn't do better. I'll send him round as I go home,"
and the doctor turned to go. He hurried down the narrow stairs, but
stopped at the front door to call back into the house, "She's to live in
poultices, mind! _Live_ in 'em."
He stopped at the curate's lodgings as he drove home, and went right in,
to find the cleric in question resting his slippered feet upon the
chimney-piece, while he smoked and read the evening paper.
"There's a kid down with pneumonia in the Waterlow Cottages, and she
fancies she's going to hell. She'd like to see you, so I said I'd send
you. Her people are Plymouth Rocks, or some such thing. She's a queer
little soul--dying, I fear."
"It can't be Keturah?" exclaimed the curate, swinging his feet off the
mantelpiece and standing up on his long legs.
"I believe that is the creature's name."
"Oh, you mustn't let Keturah die! She's a genius!"
"She may be a genius," said the doctor grimly, "but her people are the
balliest lunatics in creation, and I rather fancy that geniuses are just
as likely to die of neglect as other folk----" But the curate had not
waited for the rest of the sentence. He seized his hat and ran into the
street, his slippers (down at the heel) going flip, flop, on the wet
pavement as he ran.
"He's a good chap," murmured the doctor as he climbed into his dog-cart.
"He's a devilish good chap."
He went to see Keturah again that night, and found that his instructions
had been carried out to the letter. He also found the curate there, in
his shirt-sleeves, assisting Mrs. Moulder to make poultices. He often
does such things. His people look upon it as an amiable eccentricity.
"'E's a curus gent," they say. "'E'll turn 'is 'and to hany think."
He turned his hand to the nursing of Keturah with such success that two
days later the doctor said, "She is better, but weak as a kitten. She
must have brandy. You must watch for the grey look and give it her
then."
"Oh, sir!" exclaimed poor Mrs. Moulder, who, since the invasion of the
curate, could not call her soul her own, "Oh, sir, I daren't. My 'usband
wouldn't 'ave it in the 'ouse. 'E's tee-total, 'e is----"
"Tell him it is medicine," said the doctor shortly. "She must have it,
and here it is. Give it her in milk like this!" and suiting the action
to the word, he measured out something into a tea-cup. Something that
had a most unmistakable smell.
Keturah drank it, and her ashy cheeks grew a shade less grey. Then she
turned to the doctor, with one of her dazzling smiles. "I don't think
much on the taste of it, but"--with immense conviction--"it do make you
feel so cheerful-like, about the knees."
Her mother wrung her hands, but the doctor chuckled, and, placing on the
table the innocent-looking medicine bottle he had produced from his
pocket, nodded at it, remarking, "Every time she looks so grey, mind!"
Mrs. Moulder burnt brown paper in the bedroom, for Matthew came home at
five. She dared not pour the accursed stuff away, for the doctor and the
curate between them had frightened her out of her wits, by threatening
legal proceedings if Keturah were in any way neglected. She had been
obliged to confess to the visits of the doctor, who might fly in at any
moment when Matthew was at home. But she had not felt in any way called
upon to tell her husband that the curate had sat up with Keturah the
whole night that he was away, helping her poultice, and allaying the
child's fears as to eternal punishment so successfully that she fell
asleep. It was therefore a shock to Matthew, on his return to tea that
afternoon, to hear an undoubtedly clerical voice, apparently reading to
Keturah.
The house was perfectly quiet, though there were movements in the back
kitchen, showing the whereabouts of Mrs. Moulder. He stood at the foot
of the little narrow staircase and listened, fully prepared to find some
taint of ritualism in the curate's ministrations. He had come to make a
convert of Keturah, of that he was sure; was there not an
office--Matthew almost licked his lips over the word "office"--in the
Book of Common Prayer especially adapted to the visiting of the sick?
All the Protestant in him rose in rebellion. He would be calm, but he
would convict this meddling priest out of his own mouth. Then with the
dignified strength born of a just indignation bid him begone!
The bedroom door stood open, and he heard Keturah's weak little voice
saying, "Tell it again! I like it."