“No, no. Haven’t you sent for the Doctor?”
“Yes, I sent Henry with the dog-cart to fetch Mr Leigh.”
“Mr Leigh! Were you mad? What do you know about Mr Leigh? Bah, you always were a fool!”
“Yes, my dear, but what was I to do? It would have taken three hours to get—Oh, here he is.”
For there was the grating of carriage wheels on the drive, the dog-cart drew up, and Pierce Leigh sprang down and entered the hall.
Mrs Wilton glanced timidly at her husband, who gave her a sulky nod, and then turned to the young Doctor.
“My young niece—taken bad,” he said, gruffly, “You’d better go up and see her. Here, Maria, take him up.”
Unceremonious; but businesslike, and Leigh showed no sign of resentment, but with a peculiar novel fluttering about the region of the heart he followed the lady, who, panting the while, led the way upstairs, and breathlessly tried to explain how delicate her niece was, and how after many days of utter despondency, she had suddenly been seized with an attack of hysteria, which had been succeeded by fit after fit.
The next minute they were in the handsome bedroom at the end of a long, low corridor, where, pale as death, and with her maid—erst nurse—kneeling by her and fanning her, Kate Wilton, in her simple black, lay upon a couch, looking as if the Doctor’s coming were too late.
He drew a deep breath, and set his teeth as he sank on one knee by the insensible figure, which he longed with an intense longing to clasp to his breast. Then his nerves were strung once more, and he was the calm, professional man giving his orders, as he made his examination and inspired aunt and nurse with confidence, the latter uttering a sigh of relief as she opened the window, and obeyed sundry other orders, the result being that at the end of half an hour the sufferer, who twice over unclosed her eyes, and responded to her aunt’s questions with a faint smile, had sunk into the heavy sleep of exhaustion.