The best room, a large and handsome spare chamber adjoining Lady Laura’s dressing-room, had been hastily prepared for Lucy. She was lying in it, looking flushed and anxious, and complaining of her head and throat.
“Jane,” she whispered, as her sister bent over her, “Mr. Carlton says it is the fever. I wish I could have been at home with you!”
“You should have returned the instant you found yourself getting worse, Lucy,” was Jane’s answer. “I thought you were possessed of common sense, child. Laura, you ought to have sent her; where was your carriage, that she could not have the use of it?”
“It was not her fault—or mine,” replied Laura. “Mr. Carlton administered some remedies this morning, and wished to see the effect; to-night he says she is too ill to go. But, if you will allow me to express my private opinion, Jane, I should say that it has all happened for the best, for where can she be so well attended to as in the house of a medical man? And you may be sure she shall have good nursing.”
“Laura, I would rather have her with me; she is under my charge, you know. I wonder if she can be moved now?”
“You must be stupid to think it,” returned Laura.
“I told Mr. Carlton I felt well enough to be taken home,” spoke Lucy, “but he said I did not understand the risk. I think I might be taken, Jane.”
Jane inquired after Mr. Carlton. Ho was in the dining-room, taking some refreshment after a hard day’s work, and she went to him. He rose in astonishment. Lady Jane Chesney in his house!
“Mr. Carlton,” she said, speaking quietly in spite of her anger, and she did feel very angry, “I have come to convey Lady Lucy home. I fancy it may be done without risk.”
“Impossible, Lady Jane. It might cost her her life.”
“I cannot but think, sir, before you had assumed to yourself the responsibility of keeping her, that you might have sent to inquire my pleasure upon the subject,” returned Lady Jane, with dignity. “The fever must be quite at its earliest stage, and there was no reason why she could not have been sent home. She was well enough to walk here this morning, and she was, I make no doubt, not sufficiently ill to debar her returning this evening.”
“It has come on very rapidly indeed,” replied Mr. Carlton; “and I think she will have it badly.”
“I still wish to take her, if possible,” persisted Jane, somewhat agitated at the last words, “and I have dispatched a messenger for Mr. Grey, that he may come here and give me his opinion upon the point. In doing this, I wish to cast no slight upon your judgment and skill, Mr. Carlton, but Mr. Grey is my own attendant, and I have unusual confidence in him; moreover, he will not be prejudiced, for her removal or against it. You and I, sir, perhaps are so; though on opposite sides.”
“I do not understand you,” spoke the surgeon.
“I am prejudiced in favour of taking her; you, in favour of keeping her; Mr. Grey, on the contrary, will give his honest opinion, for he can have no motive to be biassed either way.”
“Yes, ho can,” rejoined Mr. Carlton. “A profitable patient will fall into his hands, if he gets her away.”
True, so far; but the words vexed Jane. “She will be his patient in either case, Mr. Carlton. I mean, I say, no reflection on your skill; but my own doctor must attend on Lady Lucy, wherever she may be.”
The cold, haughty tone of the words and manner, the "Lady Lucy,” stung Mr. Carlton. Jane’s treatment of him, her utter rejection of any intimacy, had been boiling up within him for years. He so far forgot his usual equanimity, he so far forgot himself, as to demand with a flash of passion and a word that had been better left unsaid, whether he was not as efficient as John Grey. Jane put him down with calm self-possession.
“Sir, it is true that my sister is your wife; but I beg you not to forget that I am Lady Jane Chesney, and that a certain amount of respect is due to me, even in your house. I do believe you to be as efficient as Mr. Grey; that your skill is equal to his; but that is not the question. He is my medical attendant, and I would prefer that he took the case.”
“It’s well known, sir, that when people are ill, there’s no place seems to them like home,” interposed Judith, who had quite adopted her lady’s prejudices in the affair. “We’d a great deal better have her at home.”
Before any rejoinder could be made, a noise was heard in the hall, and Mr. Carlton turned to it, Jane following him. Frederick Grey had entered: and Mr. Frederick was in a state of agitation scarcely suppressible. He caught hold of Lady Jane.
“My uncle was out, and I came in his stead,” he cried, his words rendered half unintelligible by emotion. “Where is she? Is she very ill?”
An altercation ensued. Mr. Carlton, whose temper was up (a most unusual thing with him) stepped before his visitor to impede his way to the stairs.
