“Quite insensible, ma’am. Is the Doctor never coming?”
“Don’t ask me, Eliza. I sent the man over in the dog-cart, with instructions to bring him back.”
“Then pray, pray come and stay with me in the bedroom, ma’am.”
“But I can’t do anything, Eliza, and it isn’t as if she were my own child. I couldn’t bear to see her die.”
“Mrs Wilton!” cried the woman, wildly. “Oh, my poor darling young mistress, whom I nursed from a babe—die!”
“Here’s master—here’s Mr Wilton,” cried the rosy-faced lady from the window, and making a dash at a glass to see that her cap was right, she hurried out of the room and down the broad oaken stairs to meet her lord at the door.
“Hallo, Maria, what’s the matter?” he cried, meeting her in the hall, his high boots splashed with mud, and a hunting whip in his hand.
“Oh, my dear, I’m so glad you’ve come! Kate—fainting fits—one after the other—dying.”
“The devil! What have you done?”
“Cold water—vinegar—burnt—”