Bulstrode went away now without anxiety as to what Raffles might say in his raving, which had taken on a muttering incoherence not likely to create any dangerous belief.  At any rate he must risk this.  He went down into the wainscoted parlor first, and began to consider whether he would not have his horse saddled and go home by the moonlight, and give up caring for earthly consequences.  Then, he wished that he had begged Lydgate to come again that evening.  Perhaps he might deliver a different opinion, and think that Raffles was getting into a less hopeful state.  Should he send for Lydgate?  If Raffles were really getting worse, and slowly dying, Bulstrode felt that he could go to bed and sleep in gratitude to Providence.  But was he worse?  Lydgate might come and simply say that he was going on as he expected, and predict that he would by-and-by fall into a good sleep, and get well.  What was the use of sending for him?  Bulstrode shrank from that result.  No ideas or opinions could hinder him from seeing the one probability to be, that Raffles recovered would be just the same man as before, with his strength as a tormentor renewed, obliging him to drag away his wife to spend her years apart from her friends and native place, carrying an alienating suspicion against him in her heart.

He had sat an hour and a half in this conflict by the firelight only, when a sudden thought made him rise and light the bed-candle, which he had brought down with him.  The thought was, that he had not told Mrs. Abel when the doses of opium must cease.

He took hold of the candlestick, but stood motionless for a long while.  She might already have given him more than Lydgate had prescribed.  But it was excusable in him, that he should forget part of an order, in his present wearied condition.  He walked up-stairs, candle in hand, not knowing whether he should straightway enter his own room and go to bed, or turn to the patient’s room and rectify his omission.  He paused in the passage, with his face turned towards Raffles’s room, and he could hear him moaning and murmuring.  He was not asleep, then.  Who could know that Lydgate’s prescription would not be better disobeyed than followed, since there was still no sleep?

He turned into his own room.  Before he had quite undressed, Mrs. Abel rapped at the door; he opened it an inch, so that he could hear her speak low.

“If you please, sir, should I have no brandy nor nothing to give the poor creetur?  He feels sinking away, and nothing else will he swaller—­and but little strength in it, if he did—­only the opium.  And he says more and more he’s sinking down through the earth.”

To her surprise, Mr. Bulstrode did not answer.  A struggle was going on within him.

“I think he must die for want o’ support, if he goes on in that way.  When I nursed my poor master, Mr. Robisson, I had to give him port-wine and brandy constant, and a big glass at a time,” added Mrs. Abel, with a touch of remonstrance in her tone.