Soon after two o'clock I was again on the field of pious conflict,

addressing more kind inquiries to Samuel at Lady Verinder's door.

My aunt had had a bad night. She was again in the room in which I had

witnessed her Will, resting on the sofa, and trying to get a little

sleep.

I said I would wait in the library, on the chance of seeing her. In the

fervour of my zeal to distribute the letters, it never occurred to me to

inquire about Rachel. The house was quiet, and it was past the hour at

which the musical performance began. I took it for granted that she and

her party of pleasure-seekers (Mr. Godfrey, alas! included) were all at

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the concert, and eagerly devoted myself to my good work, while time and

opportunity were still at my own disposal.

My aunt's correspondence of the morning--including the six awakening

letters which I had posted overnight--was lying unopened on the library

table. She had evidently not felt herself equal to dealing with a large

mass of letters--and she might be daunted by the number of them, if she

entered the library later in the day. I put one of my second set of

six letters on the chimney-piece by itself; leaving it to attract her

curiosity, by means of its solitary position, apart from the rest. A

second letter I put purposely on the floor in the breakfast-room. The

first servant who went in after me would conclude that my aunt had

dropped it, and would be specially careful to restore it to her. The

field thus sown on the basement story, I ran lightly upstairs to scatter

my mercies next over the drawing-room floor.

Just as I entered the front room, I heard a double knock at the

street-door--a soft, fluttering, considerate little knock. Before I

could think of slipping back to the library (in which I was supposed

to be waiting), the active young footman was in the hall, answering the

door. It mattered little, as I thought. In my aunt's state of health,

visitors in general were not admitted. To my horror and amazement, the

performer of the soft little knock proved to be an exception to

general rules. Samuel's voice below me (after apparently answering some

questions which I did not hear) said, unmistakably, "Upstairs, if

you please, sir." The next moment I heard footsteps--a man's

footsteps--approaching the drawing-room floor. Who could this favoured

male visitor possibly be? Almost as soon as I asked myself the question,

the answer occurred to me. Who COULD it be but the doctor?

In the case of any other visitor, I should have allowed myself to be

discovered in the drawing-room. There would have been nothing out of the

common in my having got tired of the library, and having gone upstairs

for a change. But my own self-respect stood in the way of my meeting the

person who had insulted me by sending me back my books. I slipped into

the little third room, which I have mentioned as communicating with

the back drawing-room, and dropped the curtains which closed the open

doorway. If I only waited there for a minute or two, the usual result

in such cases would take place. That is to say, the doctor would be

conducted to his patient's room.




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