“Was it Mr. Carlton I met there?” resumed Mrs. Smith, after a pause, during which she had cast her thoughts back to the nearly-forgotten incident. “I have not recognised him again. It was almost dark at the time, I remember. But perhaps his eyes were keener than mine. At any rate, I feel sure he knows who I am; why also should he put all those questions?”
“It’s only natural to him to ask such,” observed the Widow Gould. “He’d like it to be brought to light as well as the rest of us.”
“Of course he would,” was the acquiescent answer. “Once or twice I have been upon the point of talking to him about it, but I thought I’d wait; I thought I’d wait.”
She spoke this in a dreamy sort of manner. Judith rose and put back her chair. She could not stay long on that day of anxiety, and she did not care to ask Mrs. Smith any questions before the other.
“I say,” broke in that other, “how long did that little mite of an infant live? Pepperfly says it’s dead.”
“Not over long,” replied Mrs. Smith. “It wasn’t to be expected that it would. I wish yon could stay, Judith.”
“I wish I could,” was Judith’s answer. “It’s impossible to-day. There’s nothing can be done for Lady Lucy, poor thing, but one must be in the house.”
“Report says, Judy, that Lady Laura———My goodness! who’s come now?”
The sudden breaking off of the Widow Gould’s remark was caused by the dashing up to the gate of some sort of vehicle. They crowded to the window to look.
It was a baker’s cart. And seated in state beside the driver was Mrs. Pepperfly.
It appeared that her duties at Mrs. Knagg’s were over, through that lady’s being, as Mrs. Pepperfly expressed it, on her legs again, and she had quitted her the previous day. Consequently she was at leisure to make calls upon various friends. It struck her that she could not do better than devote the afternoon and evening to her new acquaintance in Blister Lane, where she should be sure to enjoy a good tea, and might happen to drop upon something nice for supper—pickled pork, or some other dainty; not to reckon the chance of being invited to take a bed. The friendly baker had accommodated her with a lift in his cart. How he had contrived to lift her up, he hardly knew; still less how he should get her down again. While this was being accomplished, the Widow Gould running out to assist in the process, the little boy awoke and cried aloud. Altogether, what with one distraction and another, Judith found a good opportunity to slip away.
She was half way down the Rise, when she met Mr. Carlton driving up in his open carriage. He was on his way to pay a visit at Tupper’s cottage.
CHAPTER XLVIII.SIR STEPHEN’S VISIT.
Down thundered Sir Stephen Grey as fast as the hissing and shrieking train could take him. The message had disturbed him in no measured degree. Lucy Chesney given over! At Great Wennock he found his son waiting with a fleet horse and gig. A minute’s explanation, and they were skimming along the smooth road.
“Any change since you telegraphed, Frederick?”
“None for the better, sir.”
There was an interval of silence.
“My son, what a pace you are driving at? Take care what you are about.”
“The horse is sure, father. And she lying at the turn between life and death.”
Sir Stephen said no more. As the gig reached South Wennock, and dashed through it on its way to Mr. Carlton’s, the inhabitants flocked to their doors and windows. What could possess young Fred Grey, that he was driving in that mad fashion? But, as their eyes fell on his companion, they recognised him, and comprehended all. Sir Stephen Grey, the great physician, brought down from London in that haste? Then Lady Lucy Chesney must indeed be dying!
Mr. Carlton happened to be at home when the gig dashed up. He had just returned from that visit to Tupper’s cottage. At the first moment he did not recognise his visitor. But he did when he met him in the hall.
“Sir Stephen Grey?” he exclaimed, his manner cold, his tones bearing marked surprise. In that first moment he scarcely understood how or why Sir Stephen had come.
“How d’ye do, how d’ye do, Carlton?” unceremoniously spoke Sir Stephen, in his haste, as he brushed past him. “Which room is she lying in?”
Whether opposition was or was not in the surgeon’s mind, he did not offer it. Indeed there was no time, for Sir Stephen had gone quickly up the stairs. For one thing, Mr. Carlton was preoccupied, sundry little trifles at Tupper’s cottage having put him out considerably. He comprehended the case now: that Frederick Grey—or perhaps Mr. John Grey— had telegraphed to Sir Stephen on Lucy’s account. Mr. Carlton had not any objection to Sir Stephen’s seeing her; but he asked himself in what way Sir Stephen’s skill was better