“Well, I don’t know, but he’s better now. I would let him rest a while if I were you.”
“Stay, sir! I’ll go fetch a light,” said Mrs Craw.
“Never mind; I know the stair well,” said Gorman hurriedly; “don’t mind a light; I shan’t want it.”
He was right. If any man ever wanted darkness rather than light—thick, heavy, impenetrable darkness—it was D. Gorman at that time.
“Took it himself!” repeated Mrs Craw in unabated surprise as she closed the street door. “It’s impossible. He’s got no more strength than an unborn hinfant. I must go an’ see to this.”
Lighting a candle, she went softly into the sick chamber and looked at the invalid, who was apparently asleep, but breathing heavily. She then went to the chimney-piece and began to examine the phials there.
“My!” she exclaimed suddenly, with a look of alarm, “if he han’t bin an’ drunk up all the tinctur’ o’ rhubarb! An’ the laudanum-bottle standin’ close beside it too! What a mercy he didn’t drink that! Well, lucky for him there wasn’t much in it, for an overdose of anything in his state would be serious.”
Full of her discovery, Mrs Craw set the candle on the table, and sat down on the chair by the bedside to think about it; but the more she thought about it the more puzzled she was.
“Took it himself,” she said, reverting to Gorman’s words. “Impossible!”
She continued to shake her head and mutter “Impossible” for some time, while she stared at the candle as if she expected that it would solve the mystery. Then she got up and examined the bedclothes, and found that a good deal of the rhubarb had been spilt on the sheets, and that a good deal more of it had been spilt on Boone’s chin and chest; after which her aspect changed considerably, as, setting down the candle, she resumed her seat and said—