“I don’t think you need be alarmed,” whispered Salis to the old man, as the door was opened, and the young squire saluted the butler with a volley of good stable oaths.
What the something unmentionable did he mean by bringing the parson? he raved.
“Do you think I’m going to die, and want to be prayed for? Send for a doctor.”
“I did, Sir Thomas,” said the butler deprecatingly; “but Dr North—”
“Curse Dr North!” roared the young man. “Send for Dr Benson.”
“I have, Sir Thomas, and—”
“Be off, you old idiot! And you, Salis, you’d better go too, or I may say something to you that you will not like.”
“You can say what you please, my good fellow,” said Salis, coolly taking off his coat for the second time in the young man’s presence.
“You coward,” groaned the injured man; “and when I’m like that. Your cursed sister—”
“Silence, you scoundrel!” roared Salis. “Here, fetch water in a basin, sponges, towels, and linen that I can cut up,” he continued to the butler, who gladly hurried out of the room. “And you, Candlish, unless you wish to rage yourself into a fever, be quiet; but I warn you that if you mention my sister again, sick or well, I will not be answerable for the consequences.”