They did all they could to hold him with one arm apiece, and to release his swelling throat with the other. Their nimble fingers whipped off his neck-tie in a moment; but the distended windpipe pressed so against the shirt-button they could not undo it. Then they seized the collar, and, pulling against each other, wrenched the shirt open so powerfully that the button flew into the air, and tinkled against a mirror a long way off.
A few more struggles, somewhat less violent, and then the face, from purple, began to whiten, the eyeballs fixed; the pulse went down; the man lay still.
“Oh, my God!” cried Rhoda Somerset. “He is dying! To the nearest doctor! There's one three doors off. No bonnet! It's life and death this moment. Fly!”
Polly obeyed, and Doctor Andrews was actually in the room within five minutes.
He looked grave, and kneeled down by the patient, and felt his pulse anxiously.
Miss Somerset sat down, and, being from the country, though she did not look it, began to weep bitterly, and rock herself in rustic fashion.
The doctor questioned her kindly, and she told him, between her sobs, how Sir Charles had been taken.
The doctor, however, instead of being alarmed by those frightful symptoms she related, took a more cheerful view directly. “Then do not alarm yourself unnecessarily,” he said. “It was only an epileptic fit.”
“Only!” sobbed Miss Somerset. “Oh, if you had seen him! And he lies like death.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Andrews; “a severe epileptic fit is really a terrible thing to look at; but it is not dangerous in proportion. Is he used to have them?”
“Oh, no, doctor—never had one before.”
Here she was mistaken, I think.
“You must keep him quiet; and give him a moderate stimulant as soon as he can swallow comfortably; the quietest room in the house; and don't let him be hungry, night or day. Have food by his bedside, and watch him for a day or two. I'll come again this evening.”
The doctor went to his dinner—tranquil.
Not so those he left. Miss Somerset resigned her own luxurious bedroom, and had the patient laid, just as he was, upon her bed. She sent the page out to her groom and ordered two loads of straw to be laid before the door; and she watched by the sufferer, with brandy and water by her side.
Sir Charles now might have seemed to be in a peaceful slumber, but for his eyes. They were open, and showed more white, and less pupil, than usual.
However, in time he began to sigh and move, and even mutter; and, gradually, some little color came back to his pale cheeks.
Then Miss Somerset had the good sense to draw back out of his sight, and order Polly to take her place by his side. Polly did so, and, some time afterward, at a fresh order, put a teaspoonful of brandy to his lips, which were still pale and even bluish.
The doctor returned, and brought his assistant. They put the patient to bed.
“His life is in no danger,” said he. “I wish I was as sure about his reason.”
At one o'clock in the morning, as Polly was snoring by the patient's bedside, a hand was laid on her shoulder. It was Rhoda.
“Go to bed, Polly: you are no use here.”
“You'd be sleepy if you worked as hard as I do.”
“Very likely,” said Rhoda, with a gentleness that struck Polly as very singular. “Good-night.”
Rhoda spent the night watching, and thinking harder than she had ever thought before.
Next morning, early, Polly came into the sick-room. There sat her sister watching the patient, out of sight.
“La, Rhoda! Have you sat there all night?”
“Yes. Don't speak so loud. Come here. You've set your heart on this lilac silk. I'll give it to you for your black merino.”
“Not you, my lady; you are not so fond of mereeny, nor of me neither.”
“I'm not a liar like you,” said the other, becoming herself for a moment, “and what I say I'll do. You put out your merino for me in the dressing-room.”
“All right,” said Polly, joyfully.
“And bring me two buckets of water instead of one. I have never closed my eyes.”
“Poor soul! and now you be going to sluice yourself all the same. Whatever you can see in cold water, to run after it so, I can't think. If I was to flood myself like you, it would soon float me to my long home.”
“How do you know? You never gave it a trial. Come, no more chat. Give me my bath: and then you may wash yourself in a tea-cup if you like—only don't wash my spoons in the same water, for mercy's sake!”
Thus affectionately stimulated in her duties, Polly brought cold water galore, and laid out her new merino dress. In this sober suit, with plain linen collar and cuffs, the Somerset dressed herself, and resumed her watching by the bedside. She kept more than ever out of sight, for the patient was now beginning to mutter incoherently, yet in a way that showed his clouded faculties were dwelling on the calamity which had befallen him.
About noon the bell was rung sharply, and, on Polly entering, Rhoda called her to the window and showed her two female figures plodding down the street. “Look,” said she. “Those are the only women I envy. Sisters of Charity. Run you after them, and take a good look at those beastly ugly caps: then come and tell me how to make one.”
“Here's a go!” said Polly; but executed the commission promptly.
It needed no fashionable milliner to turn a yard of linen into one of those ugly caps, which are beautiful banners of Christian charity and womanly tenderness to the sick and suffering. The monster cap was made in an hour, and Miss Somerset put it on, and a thick veil, and then she no longer thought it necessary to sit out of the patient's sight.
The consequence was that, in the middle of his ramblings, he broke off and looked at her. The sister puzzled him. At last he called to her in French.
She made no reply.
“Je suis a l'hopital, n'est ce pas bonne soeur?”
“I am English,” said she, softly.
CHAPTER VI.
“ENGLISH!” said Sir Charles. “Then tell me, how did I come here? Where am I?”
“You had a fit, and the doctor ordered you to be kept quiet; and I am here to nurse you.”
“A fit! Ay, I remember. That vile woman!”
“Don't think of her: give your mind to getting well: remember, there is somebody who would break her heart if you—”
“Oh, my poor Bella! my sweet, timid, modest, loving Bella!” He was so weakened that he cried like a child.
Miss Somerset rose, and laid her forehead sadly upon the window-sill.
“Why do I cry for her, like a great baby?” muttered Sir Charles. “She wouldn't cry for me. She has cast me off in a moment.”
“Not she. It is her father's doing. Have a little patience. The whole thing shall be explained to them; and then she will soon soften the old man. 'It is not as if you were really to blame.”
“No more I was. It is all that vile woman.”
“Oh, don't! She is so sorry; she has taken it all to heart. She had once shammed