Faversham meanwhile again implored Lydia to go home.  “This whole place reeks with infection.  You ought not to be here.”

“They say that nothing has been done!”

Her tone was quiet, but her look pierced.

“I tried.  It was impossible.  The only thing that could be done was that the people should go.  They are under notice.  Every single person is here in defiance of the law.  The police will have to be called in.”

“And where are we to goa, sir!” cried one of the men who had come up.  “Theer’s noa house to be had nearer than Pengarth—­yo’ know that yoursen—­an’ how are we to be waakin’ fower mile to our work i’ t’ mornin’, an’ fower mile back i’ t’ evening?  Why, we havena got t’ strength!  It isna exactly a health resort—­yo’ ken—­Mainstairs!”

“I’ll tell yo’ where soom on us might goa, Muster Faversham,” said another older man, removing the pipe he had been stolidly smoking; “theer’s two farmhouses o’ Melrose’s, within half a mile o’ this place—­shut oop—­noabody there.  They’re big houses—­yan o’ them wor an’ owd manor-house, years agone.  A body might put oop five or six families in ’em at a pinch.  Thattens might dea for a beginnin’; while soom o’ these houses were coomin’ doon.”

Lydia turned eagerly to Faversham.

“Couldn’t that be done—­some of the families with young children that are not yet attacked?” Her eyes hung on him.

He shook his head.  He had already proposed something of the sort to Melrose.  It had been vetoed.

The men watched him.  At last one of them—­a lanky youth, with a frowning, ironic expression and famous as a heckler at public meetings—­said with slow emphasis: 

“There’ll coom a day i’ this coontry, mates, when men as treat poor foak like Muster Melrose, ‘ull be pulled off t’ backs of oos an’ our like.  And may aa live to see ’t!”

“Aye! aye!” came in deep assent from the others, as they turned away.  But one white and sickly fellow looked back to say: 

“An’ it’s a graat pity for a yoong mon like you, sir, to be doin’ Muster Melrose’s dirty work—­taakin’ o’ the police—­as though yo’ had ’em oop your sleeve!”

“Haven’t I done what I could for you?” cried Faversham, stung by the reproach, and its effect on Lydia’s face.

“Aye—­mebbe—­but it’s nowt to boast on.”  The man, middle aged but prematurely old, stood still, trembling from head to foot.  “My babe as wor born yesterday, deed this mornin’; an’ they say t’ wife ’ull lig beside it afore night.”

There was a sombre silence.  Faversham broke it.  “I must see the nurses,” he said to Lydia; “but again, I beg of you to go!  I will send you news.”

“I will wait for you.  Don’t be afraid.  I won’t go indoors.”

He went round the houses, watched by the people, as they stood at their doors.  He himself was paying two nurses, and now Lady Tatham had sent two more.  He satisfied himself that they had all the stores which Undershaw had ordered; he left a donation of money with one of them, and then he returned to Lydia.