“Why, what’s the matter? How white you are.”
“I—I don’t quite know. But Miss Marcia came back and seemed in no end of a taking, at the house not being lit up.”
“Let Miss Marcia mind her own business,” said Fanny, in a temper.
“Don’t you say anything against her, Fanny. Oh, my word, there’s the bell, now. I hope to goodness there’s nothing wrong.”
Susan rushed upstairs; her knees, as she expressed it, trembling under her. She burst open the door.
“Send Fanny for the doctor at once. Get me some hot water and some brandy. Be quick; don’t wait a moment. Above all things, send Fanny for the doctor. Tell her to take a cab and drive to Dr Anstruther’s house. Be as quick as ever you can.”
Marcia had turned on the gas in her mother’s room and lit it, and now she was bending over that mother and holding her hand. The poor woman was alive, but icy cold and apparently quite unconscious. The girl felt herself trembling violently.
“They have neglected her; I can see that by the look of the room,” she thought. “The window still open, the blinds still up, the position of this sofa—all show that she was neglected. And I, too, left her. Why did I go? Oh, poor mother; poor mother.”
Tears streamed from Marcia’s eyes; they fell upon the cold hand. Marcia put her fingers on the pulse; it was still beating, but very feebly.
Susan hurried up with a great jug of hot water, and the brandy bottle.