The surgeon bowed, and went on:
“The second caution that I have to give you,” he said, “is to keep him from drinking spirits. He admits having committed an excess in that way the night before last. In his state of health, drinking means literally death. If he goes back to the brandy-bottle—forgive me for saying it plainly; the matter is too serious to be trifled with—if he goes back to the brandy-bottle, his life, in my opinion, is not worth five minutes’ purchase. Can you keep him from drinking?”
Anne answered sadly and plainly:
“I have no influence over him. The terms we are living on here—”
Mr. Speedwell considerately stopped her.
“I understand,” he said. “I will see his brother on my way home.” He looked for a moment at Anne. “You are far from well yourself,” he resumed. “Can I do any thing for you?”
“While I am living my present life, Mr. Speedwell, not even your skill can help me.”
The surgeon took his leave. Anne hurried back up stairs, before Geoffrey could re-enter the cottage. To see the man who had laid her life waste—to meet the vindictive hatred that looked furtively at her out of his eyes—at the moment when sentence of death had been pronounced on him, was an ordeal from which every finer instinct in her nature shrank in horror.
Hour by hour, the morning wore on, and he made no attempt to communicate with her, Stranger still, Hester Dethridge never appeared. The servant came up stairs to say goodby; and went away for her holiday. Shortly afterward, certain sounds reached Anne’s ears from the opposite side of the passage. She heard the strokes of a hammer, and then a noise as of some heavy piece of furniture being moved. The mysterious repairs were apparently being begun in the spare room.
She went to the window. The hour was approaching at which Sir Patrick and Blanche might be expected to make the attempt to see her.