“Another attack has come on. He was sleeping calmly,” said Mrs. Sewell as she met him, “when he awoke with a start, and broke out into wild raving. I have sent for Beattie; but what is to be done meanwhile?”
“I 'm no doctor; I can't tell you.”
“Haire thinks the ice ought to be applied; the nurse says-a blister or mustard to the back of the neck.”
“Is he really in danger?—that's the question.”
“I believe so. I never saw him so ill.”
“You think he's dying?” said he, fiercely, as though he would not brook any sort of equivocation; but the coarseness of his manner revolted her, and she turned away without reply. “There's no time to be lost,” muttered Sewell, as he hastened downstairs. “Tell George I want the carriage to the door immediately,” said he; and then, entering his own room, he opened his writing-desk, and, after some search, came upon a packet, which he sealed and addressed.
“Are you going for Beattie?” asked Mrs. Sewell, as she appeared at the door; “for Haire says it would be better to fetch some one—any one—at once.”
“I have ordered the carriage. I 'll get Lysaght or Adams-if I should not find Beattie; and mind, if Beattie come while I am away, detain him, and don't let him leave this till I return. Do you mind me?”
“Yes; I 'll tell him what you say.”
“Ay, but you must insist upon his doing it. There will be all sorts of stories if he should die—”