“She must be carried. Will you give orders, Miss Dalton? and, Scroope, step down to the carriage, and bring up—” Here Miss Ricketts's voice degenerated into an inaudible whisper; but Scroope left the room to obey the command.
Her sympathy for suffering had so thoroughly occupied Kate, that all the train of unpleasant consequences that were to follow this unhappy incident had never once occurred to her; nor did a thought of Lady Hester cross her mind, till, suddenly, the whole flashed upon her, by the appearance of her maid Nina in the drawing-room.
“To your own room, Mademoiselle?” asked she, with a look that said far more than any words.
“Yes, Nina,” whispered she. “What can I do? She is so ill! They tell me it may be dangerous at any moment, and—”
“Hush, my dear Miss Dalton!” said Martha; “one word may wake her.”
“I'd be a butterfly!” warbled the sick lady, in a low weak treble; while a smile of angelic beatitude beamed on her features.
“Hush! be still!” said Martha, motioning the surrounders to silence.
“What shall I do, Nina? Shall I go and speak to my Lady?” asked Kate.
A significant shrug of the shoulders, more negative than affirmative, was the only answer.