But at last the garden gate creaked and Nellie saw the doctor’s cook.
“Is the doctor at home?”
“His honour’s asleep,” whispered the cook into her sleeve, as though afraid of waking her master.
“He’s only just got home from his fever patients, and gave orders he was not to be waked.”
But Nellie scarcely heard the cook. Thrusting her aside, she rushed headlong into the doctor’s house. Running through some dark and stuffy rooms, upsetting two or three chairs, she at last reached the doctor’s bedroom. Stepan Lukitch was lying on his bed, dressed, but without his coat, and with pouting lips was breathing into his open hand. A little night-light glimmered faintly beside him. Without uttering a word Nellie sat down and began to cry. She wept bitterly, shaking all over.
“My husband is ill!” she sobbed out. Stepan Lukitch was silent. He slowly sat up, propped his head on his hand, and looked at his visitor with fixed, sleepy eyes. “My husband is ill!” Nellie continued, restraining her sobs. “For mercy’s sake come quickly. Make haste. . . . Make haste!”
“Eh?” growled the doctor, blowing into his hand.
“Come! Come this very minute! Or . . . it’s terrible to think! For mercy’s sake!”
And pale, exhausted Nellie, gasping and swallowing her tears, began describing to the doctor her husband’s illness, her unutterable terror. Her sufferings would have touched the heart of a stone, but the doctor looked at her, blew into his open hand, and—not a movement.
“I’ll come to-morrow!” he muttered.