He did not stop
to think how she came to be there: setting his lamp where it would
light him across the dangerous flooring, he lifted her up and threaded
the passages and stairs in the darkness till he laid her safe on the
dining-room sofa, still unconscious.
Kneeling beside her in the darkness, he felt that her face and hands
were very cold. He did not know what to do. If she had been any other
person, he would have had his senses about him, but, being who she
was, they had scattered themselves, and he felt dazed. The fire was
not quite out, and he thought of smashing up a chair to make it burn,
but searching in the coal-scuttle at the side, of the fireplace, he
found both sticks and coals, and heaped them on: then he lighted the
lamp that was still standing on the table. All this was the work of
a minute or two. A fainting-fit was quite beyond the range of his
experience, but he had some vague idea that in cases of the kind water
should be dashed in the face or a smelling-bottle held to the nostrils
or brandy poured down the throat; but none of these things were at
hand, and as he looked at Bessie, hesitating what to do, he saw the
color steal back to her face, and she opened her eyes and suddenly
shut them. When she opened them again she took his presence as a
matter of course, and said, "I sometimes walk in my sleep, I know, but
I am not in the habit of fainting;" and she smiled, looking much more
like the lily than the rose.
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