Here at least there was some poor pretence of comfort. The room was in the front of the house, and the low latticed window looked out upon a neglected garden, where some tall foxgloves reared their gaudy heads amongst the weeds. At the end of the garden there was a high brick wall, with pear-trees trained against it, and dragon's-mouth and wallflower waving in the morning-breeze.
There was a bed in this room, empty; an easy-chair near the window; near that a little table, and a set of Indian chessmen. Upon the bed there were some garments scattered, as if but lately flung there; and on the floor, near the fireplace, there were the fragments of a child's first toys—a tiny trumpet, bought at some village fair, a baby's rattle, and a broken horse.
Paul Marchmont looked about him—a little puzzled at first; then with a vague dread in his haggard face.
"Mrs. Brown!" he cried, in a loud voice, hurrying across the room towards an inner door as he spoke.
The inner door was opened before Paul could reach it, and a woman appeared; a tall, gaunt-looking woman, with a hard face and bare, brawny arms.
"Where, in Heaven's name, have you been hiding yourself, woman?" Paul cried impatiently. "And where's—your patient?"
"Gone, sir."
"Gone! Where?"
"With her stepmamma, Mrs. Marchmont—not half an hour ago. As it was your wish I should stop behind to clear up, I've done so, sir; but I did think it would have been better for me to have gone with——"
Paul clutched the woman by the arm, and dragged her towards him.