CHAPTER XXXIV.—THE LETTER.
The confusion and consternation which followed poor Augusta’s utter collapse can be better imagined than described. The sick girl was tenderly lifted from the ground in Captain Richmond’s strong arms. She was conveyed to a sofa, and the usual restoratives were administered; and when she opened her eyes and cried wildly, “Oh, my head!—oh, my back!” Miss Roy motioned to the other children to leave the room. Nancy was about to follow the example of the two little Richmond girls, when Augusta’s feverish eyes rested on her face.
“Don’t go. I can’t part from you—I can’t—I won’t.—Let Nancy stay, please—please, Miss Roy.”
“Stay for the present, dear,” said Miss Roy, nodding towards Nancy.
“Oh! let her hold my hand; let her kneel by me; no one else comforts me,” almost screamed the excited girl.
“You must control yourself, Augusta,” said the Captain, speaking now in an almost stern voice. “We must get you to your room. If you are too weak to walk I will carry you.”
“No; I can walk,” said Augusta. “I will lean on you if I may. My head feels as if it would burst. Oh, is she dead? Nan—Nan, tell me the truth. Constance can’t—no, she can’t be dead.”
“We don’t know who is dead, dear,” said Miss Roy. “We must only hope that it is not your poor young friend. Now, don’t talk any more; just let us get you to your room.”
It was with some difficulty that Augusta, who was half-delirious with illness, pain, and terror, could be got to her own apartment. At last, however, Miss Roy and the Captain succeeded in doing so. She was got into bed, and, late as it was, Captain Richmond went for the doctor.
Dr Earle happened to be in, and returned at once with Captain Richmond to Fairleigh.