The doctor put the two-shilling piece back again in her hand.  “I don’t sell laudanum to strangers,” he answered.  “If you are in any distress of body or mind, that is another matter.  I shall be glad to help you.”

She put the money back in her pocket. “You can’t help me,” she said, as quietly as ever.  “Good morning.”

With that, she opened the surgery door to go out again into the street.  So far, I had not spoken a word on my side.  I had stood with the candle in my hand (not knowing I was holding it)—­with my eyes fixed on her, with my mind fixed on her like a man bewitched.  Her looks betrayed, even more plainly than her words, her resolution, in one way or another, to destroy herself.  When she opened the door, in my alarm at what might happen I found the use of my tongue.

“Stop!” I cried out.  “Wait for me.  I want to speak to you before you go away.”  She lifted her eyes with a look of careless surprise and a mocking smile on her lips.

“What can you have to say to me?” She stopped, and laughed to herself.  “Why not?” she said.  “I have got nothing to do, and nowhere to go.”  She turned back a step, and nodded to me.  “You’re a strange man—­I think I’ll humor you—­I’ll wait outside.”  The door of the surgery closed on her.  She was gone.

I am ashamed to own what happened next.  The only excuse for me is that I was really and truly a man bewitched.  I turned me round to follow her out, without once thinking of my mother.  The doctor stopped me.

“Don’t forget the medicine,” he said.  “And if you will take my advice, don’t trouble yourself about that woman.  Rouse up the constable.  It’s his business to look after her—­not yours.”

I held out my hand for the medicine in silence:  I was afraid I should fail in respect if I trusted myself to answer him.  He must have seen, as I saw, that she wanted the laudanum to poison herself.  He had, to my mind, taken a very heartless view of the matter.  I just thanked him when he gave me the medicine—­and went out.

She was waiting for me as she had promised; walking slowly to and fro—­a tall, graceful, solitary figure in the bright moonbeams.  They shed over her fair complexion, her bright golden hair, her large gray eyes, just the light that suited them best.  She looked hardly mortal when she first turned to speak to me.

“Well?” she said.  “And what do you want?”

In spite of my pride, or my shyness, or my better sense—­whichever it might me—­all my heart went out to her in a moment.  I caught hold of her by the hands, and owned what was in my thoughts, as freely as if I had known her for half a lifetime.

“You mean to destroy yourself,” I said.  “And I mean to prevent you from doing it.  If I follow you about all night, I’ll prevent you from doing it.”

She laughed.  “You saw yourself that he wouldn’t sell me the laudanum.  Do you really care whether I live or die?” She squeezed my hands gently as she put the question:  her eyes searched mine with a languid, lingering look in them that ran through me like fire.  My voice died away on my lips; I couldn’t answer her.