Margaret did indeed look white and wan, although her senses were beginning to return to her. But the sickly daze of the swoon made her still miserably faint. She was conscious of movement around her, and of refreshment from the eau de Cologne, and a craving for the bathing to go on without intermission; but when they stopped to talk, she could no more have opened her eyes, or spoken to ask for more bathing, than the people who lie in death-like trance can move, or utter sound, to arrest the awful preparations for their burial, while they are yet fully aware, not merely of the actions of those around them, but of the idea that is the motive for such actions.
Jane paused in her bathing, to reply to Miss Thornton’s question.
“She’d have been safe enough, miss, if she’d stayed in the drawing-room, or come up to us; we were in the front garret, and could see it all, out of harm’s way.”
“Where was she then?” said Fanny, drawing nearer by slow degrees, as she became accustomed to the sight of Margaret’s pale face.
“Just before the front door—with master!” said Jane, significantly.
“With John! with my brother! How did she get there?”
“Nay, miss, that’s not for me to say,” answered Jane, with a slight toss of her head. “Sarah did——”
“Sarah what?” said Fanny, with impatient curiosity.
Jane resumed her bathing, as if what Sarah did or said was not exactly the thing she liked to repeat.
“Sarah what?” asked Fanny, sharply. “Don’t speak in these half sentences, or I can’t understand you.”