The blood left Mrs. Hazeldean’s lips; she felt it shuddering back to her heart. But a second later she spoke in a tone of natural and good-humoured impatience.
“What madness! How long ago—can you remember?” Instantly, she felt the possible imprudence of the question, and added: “The doctor said he ought not to be out more than a quarter of an hour, and only at the sunniest time of the day.”
“I know that, ma’am, and so I reminded him. But he’s been gone nearly an hour, I should say.”
A sense of deep fatigue overwhelmed Mrs. Hazeldean. She felt as if she had walked for miles against an icy gale: her breath came laboriously.
“How could you let him go?” she wailed; then, as the parlourmaid again smiled respectfully, she added: “Oh, I know—sometimes one can’t stop him. He gets so restless, being shut up with these long colds.”
“That’s what I do feel, ma’am.”
Mistress and maid exchanged a glance of sympathy, and Susan felt herself emboldened to suggest: “Perhaps the outing will do him good,” with the tendency of her class to encourage favoured invalids in disobedience.
Mrs. Hazeldean’s look grew severe. “Susan! I’ve often warned you against talking to him in that way—”
Susan reddened, and assumed a pained expression. “How can you think it, ma’am?—me that never say anything to anybody, as all in the house will bear witness.”
Her mistress made an impatient movement. “Oh, well, I daresay he won’t be long. The fire’s over.”