The dog knew his voice, ceased to bark, and began to whimper. Tyson entered, and assured that the watchdog knew him, kicked it brutally from his path. Then he groped his way between the trees, stumbled down three broken steps at the corner of the house, and passing round the building reached the door which was on the further side from the road. He tried it, but it was fastened. He knocked on it.
A slip-shod foot dragged across a stone floor. A high cracked voice asked, “Who’s there?”
“I! Tyson!” the doctor answered impatiently. “Who should it be at this hour?”
“Is’t you, doctor?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Who’s wi’ ye?”
“No one, you old fool! Who should there be?”
A key creaked in the lock, and the great bar was withdrawn; but slowly, as it seemed to the apothecary, and reluctantly. He entered and the door was barred behind him.
“Where’s Bess?” he asked.
The bent creeping figure that had admitted him replied that she was “somewheres about, somewheres about.” After which, strangely clad in a kind of bedgown and nightcap, it trailed back to the settle beside the turf and wood fire, which furnished both light and warmth. The fire, indeed, was the one generous thing the room contained. All else was sordid and pinched and mean. The once-whitened walls were stained, the rafters were smoked in a dozen places, the long dresser—for the room was large, though low—was cracked and ill-furnished, a brick supported one leg of the table. Even in the deep hearth-place, where was such comfort as the place could boast, a couple of logs served for stools and a frowsy blanket gave a squalid look to the settle.