“Quick!” cried the doctor. “Go—at once—and fetch her brother William Cressy here. Your master wants to see him instantly. Go yourself, or send some one who can run.”
The old man hesitated, and then hurried out. “I’d better go mysen,” he muttered. “P’raps it’s best; but I don’t think Willyum Cressy will be here to-night.”
He had hardly closed the door before the doctor had opened it again, and was on his way upstairs, but only to be waylaid by Lady Scarlett, who caught him by the arm, and literally made him enter the drawing-room.
“Doctor Scales, I am his wife,” she pleaded. “I have borne so much; for pity’s sake tell me. You see how I obey you and keep away; but tell me what is wrong—or I shall die.”
“Wrong?” cried the doctor, catching her hands, and kissing them again and again. “Nothing about him, my dear child. He is better—much better. The trouble—forgive me for saying it to you—is a scandal about that scoundrel—double scoundrel—Prayle.”
“And my husband?”
“Is better—much better.”
Lady Scarlett’s hands joined, and were raised towards heaven as she sank upon her knees motionless, but for a low sob that forced its way from her breast from time to time.
Doctor Scales stood gazing down at her for a few moments, and then stooping low, he laid his hand reverently upon her head.
This brought her back from her rapt state of thankful prayer, and she rose and caught his hand.