“Mary,” Mrs. Elles said urbanely, “come and help me! I want to catch the night mail for the south.”
They pulled open drawers and dragged in trunks. Mrs. Elles was not sure that she was not leaving her husband’s house for ever, and she did not mean to go without her things. The two women worked hard, carrying on a fragmentary conversation the while.
“How has your master been while I was away?” she asked of the cook, proud of being able to show that amount of good feeling.
“He’s not been to say sae well. The doctor’s been in once or twice, to please the missis—Mrs. Poynder, I mean. But the master doesn’t seem to hold with doctors much.”
“No, I know he hates them,” said his wife, carefully controlling her surprise. It was natural that Mortimer should have given way a little during her absence, partly through temper, and partly for want of her supervision, but still a little fit of excess did not seem to indicate so important a step as the calling in of doctors. “But I wonder why I have not heard anything of all this except through you?” she added, forgetting to be prudent. “What was it?”
“Oh, just a fainting fit like. Missis Poynder found him in his study a day or two back, and it took a fair half hour to bring him round.”
“Why wasn’t I telegraphed for?”
“Eh, ma’am, ye were away for your health, and so Missis Poynder thought she wouldn’t go for to agitate ye. It’s all passed off, but the doctor he says as Master behoved to be car’ful.”
“Heart?” murmured Mrs. Elles, with the interrogative inflexion, not liking to ask a direct question. She was really a little anxious. She did not positively hate her husband.
“Yes, that’s what doctor said. Avoid excitement—sperrits the worst thing!”