The landlady, dropping the modern apology for a courtesy, promised
with effusion under pressure of hard cash, to accede to Sir
Anthony's benevolent wishes. The more so as she'd do anything to
serve dear Mrs. Barton, who was always in everything a perfect
lady, most independent, in fact; one of the kind as wouldn't be
beholden to anybody for a farthing.
Some months passed away before the landlady had cause to report to
Sir Anthony. But during the worst depths of the next London
winter, when gray fog gathered thick in the purlieus of Marylebone,
and shivering gusts groaned at the street corners, poor little
Dolly caught whooping-cough badly. On top of the whooping-cough
came an attack of bronchitis; and on top of the bronchitis a
serious throat trouble. Herminia sat up night after night, nursing
her child, and neglecting the work on which both depended for
subsistence. Week by week things grew worse and worse; and Sir
Anthony, kept duly informed by the landlady, waited and watched,
and bided his time in silence. At last the case became desperate.
Herminia had no money left to pay her bill or buy food; and one
string to her bow after another broke down in journalism. Her
place as the weekly lady's-letter writer to an illustrated paper
passed on to a substitute; blank poverty stared her in the face,
inevitable. When it came to pawning the type-writer, as the
landlady reported, Sir Anthony smiled a grim smile to himself. The
moment for action had now arrived. He would put on pressure to get
away poor Alan's illegitimate child from that dreadful woman.
Next day he called. Dolly was dangerously ill,--so ill that
Herminia couldn't find it in her heart to dismiss the great doctor
from her door without letting him see her. And Sir Anthony saw
her. The child recognized him at once and rallied, and smiled at
him. She stretched her little arms. She must surely get well if a
gentleman who drove in so fine a carriage, and scattered sovereigns
like ha'pennies, came in to prescribe for her. Sir Anthony was
flattered at her friendly reception. Those thin small arms touched
the grandfather's heart. "She will recover," he said; "but she
needs good treatment, delicacies, refinements." Then he slipped
out of the room, and spoke seriously to Herminia. "Let her come to
me," he urged. "I'll adopt her, and give her her father's name.
It will be better for herself; better for her future. She shall be
treated as my granddaughter, well-taught, well-kept; and you may
see her every six months for a fortnight's visit. If you consent,
I will allow you a hundred a year for yourself. Let bygones be
bygones. For the child's sake, say YES! She needs so much that
you can never give her!"