“Here, Orbie!” cried John; “help me to bundle him out before he comes to himself—Take what you would have!” he said, as between us we shoved him out on the gravel.
I fetched smelling-salts and brandy, and everything I could think of—fetched Martha too, and between us we got her on the sofa, but lady Cairnedge lay motionless. 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.
I went back to John.