The doctor, however, instead of being alarmed by those frightful symptoms she related, took a more cheerful view directly. “Then do not alarm yourself unnecessarily,” he said. “It was only an epileptic fit.”
“Only!” sobbed Miss Somerset. “Oh, if you had seen him! And he lies like death.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Andrews; “a severe epileptic fit is really a terrible thing to look at; but it is not dangerous in proportion. Is he used to have them?”
“Oh, no, doctor—never had one before.”
Here she was mistaken, I think.
“You must keep him quiet; and give him a moderate stimulant as soon as he can swallow comfortably; the quietest room in the house; and don't let him be hungry, night or day. Have food by his bedside, and watch him for a day or two. I'll come again this evening.”
The doctor went to his dinner—tranquil.
Not so those he left. Miss Somerset resigned her own luxurious bedroom, and had the patient laid, just as he was, upon her bed. She sent the page out to her groom and ordered two loads of straw to be laid before the door; and she watched by the sufferer, with brandy and water by her side.
Sir Charles now might have seemed to be in a peaceful slumber, but for his eyes. They were open, and showed more white, and less pupil, than usual.
However, in time he began to sigh and move, and even mutter; and, gradually, some little color came back to his pale cheeks.