Maurice told Mrs. Trevanard of his first night at Borcel End, and the intrusion which had shortened his slumbers.
‘Ah, to think that she should have happened to find her way there that night, close as we keep her! My door is always locked, and she can’t get out into the house without coming through this room; but I suppose that night I must have forgotten to take the key out of the door and put it under my pillow as I do mostly. And the poor child went roaming about the house by moonlight. That’s an old trick of hers. The room where you sleep was her room once upon a time, and she always goes there if she gets the chance. It was unlucky that it should have happened the first night of your being here!’
‘She is very fond of you, I suppose,’ said Maurice, anxious to hear more of one in whom he felt a strong interest.
‘Yes, I think she likes me better than any one else now.’
‘Better even than her own mother?’
‘Why, yes, she does not get on very well with her mother; she has odd fancies about her.’
‘I thought as much. I have heard her speak of a child. That was a mere delusion, I conclude.’
‘Yes, that was one of her fancies.’
‘Has Mrs. Trevanard never consulted any medical man upon the state of her daughter’s mind?’
‘Medical man,’ repeated the old woman, dubiously. ‘You mean a doctor, I suppose? Yes; Dr. Mitchell, from Seacomb, has seen the poor child many a time, and given her physic for this, that, and the other, but he says her mind will never be any different. There’s no use worrying about that. He gives her stuff for her appetite sometimes, for she has but a poor appetite at the best. She’s sorely wasted away from the figure she was once upon a time.’