"Stay, Billiter," he cried; "what are you going for? I tell you I am ill, woman, very ill."
"I was going to send for Mr. Slattery," said Billiter, in a cold tone; "I saw you were ill, Sir."
"Send for the devil!" exclaimed Mr. Wittingham, "that fellow Slattery is no good at all. Here have I been taking his soap-pills and his cordial-boluses for these three weeks, and am no better but rather worse. I will go to bed, Billiter--get me a cup of hot coffee--I feel very ill indeed."
"You had better see some one," said Mrs. Billiter, "for you don't look right at all, and it would take some hours to get another doctor."
"Well, well, send for the man if it must be so," said Mr. Wittingham, "but he does nothing but cram one with potions and pills just to make up a long bill. Here, help me upstairs, I will go to bed, and bring me a cup of strong coffee--I declare I can scarcely stand."
As soon as Mr. Wittingham was safely deposited in his room, Mrs. Billiter descended to the kitchen, and sent the housemaid at once for Mr. Slattery, taking care to spend as much time as possible on the preparation of the coffee, not judging it by any means a good beverage for her master, in which she was probably, right. The surgeon, however, was so long ere he appeared, that she was obliged to carry up the coffee to Mr. Wittingham, whom she found retching violently, and complaining of violent pains. He nevertheless drank the coffee to the last drop, in the more haste as Mrs. Billiter expressed an opinion it would do him harm; after having accomplished which he sank back upon his pillow exhausted, and closed his eyes. The colour of his skin was now of a shade of deep green, approaching to black under his eyes, and the housekeeper, as she stood by his bedside and gazed at him, thought to herself that it would not last long. It must not be pretended that she was in any degree greatly affected at the prospect of her master's speedy demise, though she had lived in his service very many years, for he was not one to conciliate affection in any one, and her meditations were more of how she could best serve the graceless lad, whose disposition she had assisted to ruin, than of his father's probable fate.
While she thus paused and reflected, the quick, creaky step of Mr. Slattery was on the stairs, and the moment after he entered the room, rubbing gently together a pair of hands, the fingers of which were fat and somewhat red, though very soft and shapeless, presenting the appearance of four long sausages and a short one. He had always a cheerful air, Mr. Slattery, for he fancied it comforted his patients, kept up their spirits, and prevented them from sending for other advice. Thus he would stand and smile upon a dying man, as if he had a real and sincere pleasure in his friend's exit from a world of woe; and very few people could discover from the worthy gentleman's countenance whether a relation was advancing quietly towards recovery or the tomb. Thus with a jaunty step he approached Mr. Wittingham's bedside, sat down, and as the sick man opened his eyes, laughed benignantly, saying,
"Why, my dear Sir, what is all this? You must have been agitating yourself," and at the same time he put his fingers on the pulse.
"Agitated myself!" cried Mr. Wittingham, "it is that old bankrupt brute, Sir John Slingsby, has nearly driven me mad, and I believe these servants will finish it. Why the devil do you leave my wig there, Billiter? Put it upon the block; don't you see Mr. Slattery is sitting upon it?"
"Well, I declare," cried the surgeon, "I thought I felt as if I were sitting upon a cat or something of that kind. But, my dear Sir, you must really keep yourself quiet or you will bring yourself into a feverish state. The pulse is hard and quick now, and your skin is very hot and dry. We must make a little addition to the soap pill, and I will send you directly a stomachic cordial-draught, combined with a little narcotic, to produce comfortable sleep."