"Sydney," she murmured, catching at the table for support, and speaking so brokenly that he had difficulty in distinguishing the words, "Sydney—I cannot pay this debt!"
And then she fell at his feet in a swoon, which at first he mistook for death.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
"SO SHALL YE ALSO REAP."
For some time Nan's life hung in the balance. It seemed as though a straw either way would suffice to turn the scales. Dead silence reigned in the house in Thurloe Square: the street outside was ankle-deep in straw: doctors and nurses took possession of Nan's pretty rooms, where all her graceful devices and gentle handicrafts were set aside, and their places filled with a grim array of medicaments. The servants, who loved their mistress, went about with melancholy faces and muffled voices; and the master of the house, hitherto so confident and self-reliant, presented to the world a stony front of silent desolation, for which nobody would have given Sydney Campion credit.
"Over-exertion or mental shock must have brought it on," said the doctor, when questioned by Lady Pynsent as to the cause of Mrs. Campion's illness.
"She can't have had a mental shock," said Lady Pynsent, decidedly. "She must have over-excited herself. Do you know how she did it, Sydney?"
"She fainted at my feet almost as soon as I saw her," said Sydney. "I don't know what she had been doing all the afternoon."
Nobody else seemed to know, either. The maid bore witness that her mistress had insisted on going downstairs, and it was generally supposed that this expedition had been too much for her strength. Only Sydney knew better, and he would not confide his knowledge to Lady Pynsent, although he spoke with more freedom to the doctor.