“Quick!” exclaimed Sir Philip—“the nearest doctor directly. My son is dangerously ill!”
The woman hurried out, but returned directly.
“I have sent, sir. But can I do anything? Has he taken too much?”
“Too much! Too much what?” cried Sir Philip angrily, resenting the remark. “What do you mean, woman?”
“He has been taking it now for above a fortnight, sir,” said the maid. “Poor gentleman! he’s in trouble, I think, and takes it to quiet himself.”
“What?” cried Sir Philip, but this time with less anger in his tones.
“Morphy, I think it’s called, sir—a sort of spirits of laudanum; and I suppose it’s awful strong. Surely, poor gentleman, he ain’t over-done it!”
“Are you sure that he has been in the habit of taking it?” said Sir Philip.
“O, yes, sir. I’ve often seen the bottle on the dressing-table. ‘Morphy: to be used with great care,’ it said on the label. I don’t fancy he’s so bad as you think, sir.”
Sir Philip, still trembling with anxiety, knelt by his son’s couch, to be somewhat reassured by a deep sigh which the young man now drew; and five minutes after, the doctor came in, black, smooth, and silent—a very owl amongst men—bowed to Sir Philip, and then looked at his patient.