heard puffing up in answer. She was sure to puff when going upstairs, however slow her pace might be.
“Mrs. Pepperfly, how’s this? You have allowed your charge to talk too much.”
“Well, sir, and she will talk,” was Mrs. Pepperfly’s answer, nearly the same as the one given by Judith. “She’s all right, sir; a little hot maybe to-night; but it’s no harm: she’s too young and healthy for harm to come anigh her, through a bit of talking.”
“I’ll not have her talk until she is stronger,” said Mr. Stephen. “You must stop it. I must send her in a composing draught now, as I did last night.”
Mr. Stephen Grey gave Mr. Carlton more grace than most busy medical men would have given—waiting for him until a quarter past seven. After his departure, Judith went in home; her face was paining her very much; and Mrs. Pepperfly stopped on guard. Scarcely had she gone when Mrs. Crane called to her from the next room.
“Judith. Come here, Judith. I want you.”
“Now, mum, you are not to talk,” cried Mrs. Pepperfly, hastening in. “Mr. Stephen have been a blowing of me up like anything, for suffering it. He as good as said it was my fault.”
Mrs. Crane laughed; laughed out merrily, the nurse’s tone was so resentfully serious. “Oh, well, I’ll be good,” she said. “But I do want to speak to Judith for a minute. Is she not there?”
“No, mum, she’s gone in home—and Mr. Stephen had better have blown her up instead of me; for I’m sure it’s to her you talk. Settle yourself just for a wink or two of sleep, there’s a dear lady.”
About eight o’clock the nurse was called down to supper. It was her usual hour for taking it, and she had been exceedingly wrathful the previous night at its having been delayed; the wrath, perhaps, causing the widow to get it ready punctually on this. Almost immediately afterwards Mr. Carlton arrived in a hot heat. He had walked from the Rise, he said to Mrs. Gould, who opened the door to him, and was sorry Mr. Stephen Grey had gone. The truth was, Mr. Carlton need not have missed the appointment, but he had lingered at Captain Chesney’s. In Laura’s society the time seemed to have wings. Mrs. Gould attended him upstairs, for he said he would see the patient, and then she went down again.
Mr. Carlton had not been talking with the invalid many minutes when a ring at the bell was heard, and somebody ascended the stairs. The surgeon went into the sitting room, possibly thinking it might be Mr. Stephen Grey. It was, however, Mrs. Pepperfly.
“It’s the draught, please, sir,” said she.
“Draught?” he repeated, taking a small bottle from her hand. “What draught? One that Mr. Stephen Grey has sent in?”
“Yes, sir, the sleeping draught. He said she was excited to-night through talking, and must take one.”
Mr. Carlton undid the paper, took out the cork, and smelt it. “How strongly it smells of oil of almonds!” he exclaimed.
“Do it, sir?”
“Do it! why, can’t you smell it yourself?” he returned. And once more taking out the cork, which he had replaced, he held the phial towards her.
“Yes, sir; but I have got a cold. And when I does have them colds upon me, my nose ain’t worth a rush.”
The surgeon was still occupied with the draught, smelling it. Then he tasted it, just putting his finger to the liquid and that to his tongue.
“Extraordinary!” he remarked, in an undertone. “Why should Grey be giving her this? Here, take possession of it, nurse,” he added. “It is to be given the last thing.”
He returned to the bed-room as he spoke, and Mrs. Pepperfly placed the phial on the cheffonier, where other medicine bottles were arrayed. Then she put her head inside the bed-chamber. Mr. Carlton was standing talking to the sick lady.
“Do you want anything, please, ma'am?”
“Nothing at present,” replied Mrs. Crane. “You can go down.”
The nurse did as she was bid, and not long afterwards Mr. Carlton said good-night to Mrs. Crane, and passed through the sitting room to take his departure. As he went out on the landing to descend the stairs he saw what he thought was a face, leaning against the wall by the bed-room door and staring at him; a man’s face, with thick black whiskers; a strange face, looking stern, white, and cold in the moonlight. Mr. Carlton was of remarkably strong nerve—a bold, fearless man; but the impression this made upon him was so great that for once in his life he was startled.
“Who and what are you?” he whispered, his voice insensibly assuming a tone of awe, of shuddering terror: for in good truth that face did not look like any earthly one that Mr. Carlton had ever in his life seen.
There was no reply; there was neither movement nor sound. Uncertain whether the moonlight was not playing him some fantastic trick, the surgeon strode back to the sitting-