Rebecca, not knowing what to say, glanced at Mrs. Chattaway. "Yes, it was ordered," murmured the latter. "I ordered it."
"You!" returned Miss Diana. "What for?" But Miss Diana spoke in surprise only; not objecting: it was so very unusual for Mrs. Chattaway to interfere in the domestic arrangements. It surprised them all, and her daughters looked at her. Poor Mrs. Chattaway could not put forth the plea that it was being made for herself, for calve's-foot jelly was a thing she never touched. The confusion on his wife's face attracted the notice of Mr. Chattaway.
"Possibly you intended to regale old Canham?" he scornfully said, alluding to what had passed that day. Not that he believed anything so improbable.
"Madam knows the young ladies like it, and she told me to make some," good-naturedly spoke up Rebecca in the midst of her pain.
The excuse served, and the matter passed. Miss Diana privately thought what a poor housekeeper her sister would make, ordering things when they were not required, and Mr. Chattaway quitted the scene. When the doctor arrived and had attended to the patient, Mrs. Chattaway, who was then in her room, sent to request him to come to her before he left, adding to the message that she did not feel well.
He came up immediately. She put a question or two about the injury to the girl, which was trifling, he answered, and would not keep her a prisoner long; and then Mrs. Chattaway lowered her voice, and spoke in the softest whisper.
"Mr. King, you must tell me. Is Rupert worse?"
"He is very ill," was the answer. "He certainly grows worse instead of better."
"Will he die?"
"I do believe he will die unless he can be got out of that unwholesome place. The question is, how is it to be done?"