She breathed indeed, but did not open her eyes.
John stood ready to do anything for her, but his countenance revealed
little compassion. Whatever the cause of his mother's swoon--he had never
seen her in one before--he was certain it had to do with some bad passage
in her life. He said so to me that same evening. "But what could the
sight of my uncle have to do with it?" I asked. "Probably he knows
something, or she thinks he does," he answered.
"Wouldn't it be better to put her to bed, and send for the doctor, John?"
I suggested at last.
Perhaps the sound of my voice calling her son by his Christian name,
stung her proud ear, for the same moment she sat up, passed her hands
over her eyes, and cast a scared gaze about the room.
"Where am I? Is it gone?" she murmured, looking ghastly.
No one answered her.
"Call Parker," she said, feebly, yet imperiously.
Still no one spoke.
She kept glancing sideways at the window, where nothing was to be seen
but the gathering night. In a few moments she rose and walked straight
from the room, erect, but white as a corpse. I followed, passed her, and
opened the hall-door. There stood the carriage, waiting, as if nothing
unusual had happened, Parker seated in the rumble, with one of the
footmen beside him. The other man stood by the carriage-door. He opened
it immediately; her ladyship stepped in, and dropped on the seat; the
carriage rolled away.
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