“She is a servant or housekeeper of the lady who lives at ‘Solitude.’ But here comes the driver, limping and making wry faces.”
Robert Maclean approached the sofa, and his scratched and 136 bleeding face paled as he leaned over the prostrate form of his mother.
“Oh, doctors, surely two of you can save her! For God’s sake, don’t let her die! Does she breathe?”
“Yes, the bleeding has already benefitted her. She breathes regularly, and the action of her heart is better. Sit down, my man,—you look ghastly. Mitchell, give him some brandy, and sew up that gash in his cheek, while I write a prescription.”
“Never mind me, doctor; only save my poor mother. She looks like death itself. Mother, mother, it is all over now! Come, wake up, and speak to me!”
He seized one of her cold hands, and chafed it vigorously between both of his, while tears and blood mingled, as they dripped from his face to hers.
“Doctor, tell me the truth; is there any hope?”
“Certainly, my friend; there is every reason to believe she will ultimately recover, though you need not be surprised if she remains for some hours in a heavy stupor. Remember, a pile of brick is not exactly a feather pillow, and it may be some time before the brain recovers from the severity of the contusion. What is your name?”
“Robert Maclean.”
“And hers?”