She immediately turned and entered the chamber, but found no one there. Lord Leaton had just awakened and turned over.
“Has any one been here?” inquired her ladyship.
“No one at all,” he answered.
“It was fancy, then,” muttered the lady to herself, as she gave the sleeping-draught to her husband.
He drank it to the dregs; yet it did not seem to produce the usual effects. The patient could not get to sleep; on the contrary, he grew more and more restless, and soon became violently ill.
Lady Leaton, in alarm, aroused the servants, and despatched a messenger to Poolville, the adjoining village, for their medical attendant, who immediately hastened to the bedside of his patient. But the utmost skill of the physician was unavailing, for, before morning, Lord Leaton expired.
It was then that the medical attendant felt it his duty to declare to the grieving widow that her husband had died from the effects of a virulent poison, and to demand an investigation by the coroner’s jury.
This would have been a terrible blow to Lady Leaton could she have been made to receive it. But she indignantly repudiated the idea.
What, he poisoned?—he, Lord Leaton, who was so kind-hearted that he would not have crushed a worm in his path, or killed a wasp that stung him?—he, who was so universally beloved and honored that he had not one enemy in the wide world?—he, in whose premature death no one could have a benefit, but in whose beneficent life thousands possessed the deepest interest?—he taken off by foul means? The idea was too preposterous as well as too dreadful to believe.
No; the horror of such a suspicion was not added to the unspeakable sorrow of the widow.