CHAPTER XXXVII.
PUT TO THE TEST.
The doctor from Hertford came at noon to see his patient. As he left the sick-chamber he was met by Julia, who had been watching for him at the door of her own apartment.
She beckoned the surgeon into her pretty sitting-room. A small portable easel was arranged upon the table, with an open colour-box, a palette, and a sheaf of brushes. It seemed as if Julia had been painting.
Amongst the colours and brushes there was a little medicine vial, filled with a colourless liquid, but bearing no label whatever.
“Good morning, Mr. Granger,” said Julia. “How is your patient?”
She was quite calm, although still very pale; and she asked the question in a quiet tone that betrayed no emotion except a natural interest in the invalid.
The surgeon shrugged his shoulders.
“I cannot say that there is much change,” he said, “either for better or worse. It is a very peculiar case, Miss Godwin—a case in which the mind seems more affected than the body. I am about to speak to your father on the subject, and I shall propose calling in further medical aid. I must confess that the case is somewhat beyond me, the mind is so very strangely affected. One rooted idea seems to have taken firm possession of the brain.”
“And that idea is——”
“A very horrible one, Miss Godwin—something about murder and treachery; and unfortunately my patient has taken it into his head to mix your father’s name with all his wild talk. There is no accounting for these delirious fancies. Good morning.”
“Stay, Mr. Granger,” exclaimed Julia. “I want to ask your advice about something.”
“And I shall be most happy to give it.”
“It is a very trivial subject. When I was in town some weeks ago, I was recommended a wash to mix with my colours for painting. It is a mixture intended to brighten the tints, I believe; but the shopkeeper who recommended it told me that I must be very careful how I use it, as it is of a poisonous nature. I am so foolish as to be almost afraid to use the wash at all after having heard this, and I should be very glad if you would tell me whether it really is poisonous.”
Julia Godwin placed the medicine vial in the surgeon’s hand. He removed the cork and smelt the liquid.
“Poisonous!” he exclaimed; “I should think it was poisonous indeed! Why, my dear young lady, do you know that there is a considerable admixture of prussic acid in this fine wash of yours? Upon my word, people have no right to sell such stuff, even if it does give brilliancy to the water-colours, which I can scarcely believe.”
Julia’s pale face grew white to the very lips.
“There is prussic acid in it, then?” she said.
“Most decidedly, my dear Miss Godwin; but there is no occasion for so much alarm. So long as you do not let any of this liquid approach your lips there is no possible danger.”
“And if—if an accident were to happen—if any one were to drink that stuff?”
The surgeon smiled.
“Well, my dear young lady, that imprudent person would not live to drink anything else. But I will take the bottle home and analyze its contents, if you like.”
“O, no!” exclaimed Julia, taking the bottle hastily from his hand, “not on any account; there is no occasion.”
“I should recommend you to throw the stuff away.”
Julia went to one of the windows, and poured the contents of the bottle upon the mould of a box of flowers in her balcony.
“You are satisfied now?” she said, with a smile.
Heaven knows how difficult it was for her to assume that careless manner, that smiling countenance.
“Quite satisfied,” answered the surgeon. “Good morning.”
He left the room, closing the door after him. In the next moment Julia flung herself on her knees, her hands clasped above her head, her tearless eyes raised piteously to Heaven.
“O God of mercy, have compassion on my misery!” she cried; “for now I know the worst. My father is a villain and a murderer! I understand all now—that delirious raving about murder and treachery; those wild accusations which mystify the watchers in the sick-room: I understand all now. Beneath them there is hidden some fearful story, and it is to seal for ever the lips of his accuser that my father would have committed a murder.”