At this period Mark Hurdlestone was attacked, for the first time in his life, with a dangerous illness.  Elinor nursed him with the greatest care, and prescribed for him as well as she could; for he would not suffer a doctor to enter the house.  But finding that the disorder did not yield to her remedies, but rather that he grew daily worse, she privately sent for the doctor.  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.  “Well, my dear lady, if he will not give it to save his worthless life, you must steal it from him.  If you fail, why let Nature take her course.  His death would certainly be your gain.”

Returning to the sick room, she found the patient in a better temper, evidently highly gratified at having expelled the doctor.  Elinor thought this a good opportunity to urge her request for a small sum of money to procure medicines and other necessaries; but on this subject she found him inexorable.

“Give you money to buy poison!” he exclaimed.  “Do you take me for a fool, or mad?”

“You are very ill, Marcus; you will die, without you follow Dr. Moore’s advice.”

“Don’t flatter yourselves.  I don’t mean to die to please you.  There is a great deal of vitality in me yet.  Don’t say another word.  I will take nothing but cold water; I feel better already.”

“Pray God that you may be right,” said Elinor.  But after this fit of rage, he fell into a stupor, and before night he was considerably worse.  His unfortunate wife, worn down with watching and want of food and rest, now determined to have a regular search for the key of his strongbox, that she might procure him the medicines prescribed by the doctor, and purchase oatmeal and bread for the use of the parish girl and herself.