“Then Guy isn’t dead?” said Florella, composedly.
“No; just breathing. He was caught in the timber so that his head was above water. It’s the shock to the heart that has done it. But he isn’t gone—yet.”
Then Florella came to herself with a shock that was like the stab of a knife. The room swayed and darkened, and she barely kept her senses; but in a moment the life forces seemed to come back again with pain and anguish, but clear and ready for action.
“I’ll go and help Cosy,” she said.
Mrs Palmer had an effective maid, who was able to carry out the doctor’s directions, and the other women prepared what was needed, till the news came downstairs that the long fainting-fit had yielded at last, and Guy was able to swallow, and had moved and opened his eyes, though without any sign of recognition.
“The doctor would stay for the night, and every one not wanted had better go to bed.”
“Godfrey sits there, at the foot of the bed, like a big dog,” said the vicar, as he came downstairs. “He’s no earthly good, but he won’t stir.”
When Godfrey, pale with that long, mute watch, and not daring to take hope from the mere fact that his brother still lived, at last went down to breakfast, there by the table sat Constancy, holding Rawdie on her knee, and feeding him with bits of chicken.
“Oh,” she said, “this poor little darling must have been in the wood all night. See, his paw is hurt; he came crying to the door this morning.”
“Let me take him to Guy,” said Godfrey, eagerly. “He might notice him—he has never come to himself.”