THERE was no more sleep for me that night, and I was thankful when
daylight came.
Soon afterward, Agnes called me to Mrs. Brympton. I was afraid she was
ill again, for she seldom sent for me before nine, but I found her
sitting up in bed, pale and drawn-looking, but quite herself.
"Hartley," says she quickly, "will you put on your things at once and
go down to the village for me? I want this prescription made up--" here
she hesitated a minute and blushed--"and I should like you to be back
again before Mr. Brympton is up."
"Certainly, madam," I said.
"And--stay a moment--" she called me back as if an idea had just struck
her--"while you're waiting for the mixture, you'll have time to go on
to Mr. Ranford's with this note."
It was a two-mile walk to the village, and on my way I had time to turn
things over in my mind. It struck me as peculiar that my mistress
should wish the prescription made up without Mr. Brympton's knowledge;
and, putting this together with the scene of the night before, and with
much else that I had noticed and suspected, I began to wonder if the
poor lady was weary of her life, and had come to the mad resolve of
ending it. The idea took such hold on me that I reached the village on
a run, and dropped breathless into a chair before the chemist's
counter. The good man, who was just taking down his shutters, stared at
me so hard that it brought me to myself.
"Mr. Limmel," I says, trying to speak indifferent, "will you run your
eye over this, and tell me if it's quite right?"
He put on his spectacles and studied the prescription.
"Why, it's one of Dr. Walton's," says he. "What should be wrong with
it?"
"Well--is it dangerous to take?"
"Dangerous--how do you mean?"