When he arrived, Mr. Hurdlestone ordered
him out of his room, and nearly exhausted what little strength he still
possessed, in accusing Elinor of entering into a conspiracy with Mr.
Moore to kill him, and, as the doctor happened to be a widower, to marry
him after his death, and share the spoils between them.
"Your husband, madam, is mad--as mad as a March hare," said Mr. Moore,
as he descended the stairs. "He is, however, in a very dangerous state,
it is doubtful if he ever recovers."
"And what can be done for him?"
"Nothing in his present humor without you have him treated as a maniac,
which, if I were in your case and in your situation, I most certainly
would do."
"Oh, no, no! there is something dreadful in such a charge coming from a
wife, though he often appears to me scarcely accountable for his
actions; but what can I give him to allay this dreadful fever?"
"I will write you a prescription." This the doctor did on the back of a
letter with his pencil, for Elinor could not furnish him with a scrap of
paper.
"You must send this to the apothecary. He will make it up."
"What will it cost?"
The doctor smiled. "A mere trifle; perhaps three shillings."
"I have not had such a sum in my possession for the last three years. He
will die before he will give it to me."
"Mad, mad, mad," said the doctor, shaking his head.
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