Stuart Denville could not restrain himself as he heard those voices just behind, and it was as if some power had turned him sharply round to see Major Rockley in conversation with one of the private dragoons of his regiment.
The man had delivered his message to his master, and then turned stiffly to go, coming face to face with Denville, whose whole manner changed. He turned deadly pale, of an unwholesome pallor, and then the blood seemed to flush to his face and head. His eyes flashed and his lips parted as if to speak, but the dragoon saluted, turned upon his heel, and strode away.
“Anything the matter, Denville?” said the Major, who had seen something of the encounter.
“Matter, matter,” said the old man hoarsely, and he now began to tremble violently. “No—no,—a little faint. You’ll pardon me,—a chair,—a—”
The old man would have fallen, but the Major caught his arm and helped him to a seat, where a crowd of fashionables surrounded him, and did all they possibly could to prevent his recovery from his fit by keeping away every breath of air, and thrusting at him bottles of salts, vinaigrettes, and scents of every fashionable kind.
“What’s the matter with the old fellow?” said the Major, as he twirled his moustache. “Could he have known about the note? Impossible; and if he had known, why should he turn faint? Bah! Absurd! The heat. He’s little better than a shadow, after all.”