(Having done nothing to fatigue himself for a full quarter of an hour, Francis began to fear that he was not in a state of idleness.)
Doctor Speddie politely assented to the proposition of Francis Goodchild, ′as it would give him the pleasure of enjoying a few more minutes of Mr. Goodchild′s society than he could otherwise have hoped for,′ and they went out together into the village street. The rain had nearly ceased, the clouds had broken before a cool wind from the north-east, and stars were shining from the peaceful heights beyond them.
Doctor Speddie′s house was the last house in the place. Beyond it, lay the moor, all dark and lonesome. The wind moaned in a low, dull, shivering manner round the little garden, like a houseless creature that knew the winter was coming. It was exceedingly wild and solitary. ′Roses,′ said the Doctor, when Goodchild touched some wet leaves overhanging the stone porch; ′but they get cut to pieces.′
The Doctor opened the door with a key he carried, and led the way into a low but pretty ample hall with rooms on either side. The door of one of these stood open, and the Doctor entered it, with a word of welcome to his guest. It, too, was a low room, half surgery and half parlour, with shelves of books and bottles against the walls, which were of a very dark hue. There was a fire in the grate, the night being damp and chill. Leaning against the chimney-piece looking down into it, stood the Doctor′s Assistant.
A man of a most remarkable appearance. Much older than Mr. Goodchild had expected, for he was at least two-and-fifty; but, that was nothing. What was startling in him was his remarkable paleness. His large black eyes, his sunken cheeks, his long and heavy iron-grey hair, his wasted hands, and even the attenuation of his figure, were at first forgotten in his extraordinary pallor. There was no vestige of colour in the man. When he turned his face, Francis Goodchild started as if a stone figure had looked round at him.
′Mr. Lorn,′ said the Doctor. ′Mr. Goodchild.′
The Assistant, in a distraught way—as if he had forgotten something—as if he had forgotten everything, even to his own name and himself—acknowledged the visitor′s presence, and stepped further back into the shadow of the wall behind him. But, he was so pale that his face stood out in relief again the dark wall, and really could not be hidden so.
′Mr. Goodchild′s friend has met with accident, Lorn,′ said Doctor Speddie. ′We want the lotion for a bad sprain.′
A pause.
′My dear fellow, you are more than usually absent to-night. The lotion for a bad sprain.′
′Ah! yes! Directly.′
He was evidently relieved to turn away, and to take his white face and his wild eyes to a table in a recess among the bottles. But, though he stood there, compounding the lotion with his back towards them, Goodchild could not, for many moments, withdraw his gaze from the man. When he at length did so, he found the Doctor observing him, with some trouble in his face. ′He is absent,′ explained the Doctor, in a low voice. ′Always absent. Very absent.′
′Is he ill?′
′No, not ill.′
′Unhappy?′
′I have my suspicions that he was,′ assented the Doctor, ′once.
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