Three bounds took Nicholas to the door of the bookroom. He was brought up short by the sight of his hostess lying inanimate on the hearth rug with Francis Cheviot on his knees beside her distractedly splashing water from a vase of snowdrops over her ashen face. The snowdrops lay scattered beside her, the cushion from one of the window seats had been cast on to the floor, and the casement was swinging wide on its hinges.
“You villain, what have you done?” thundered Nicky, hurrying forward.
“Do not waste time asking me what I have done!”
Francis besought him. “Summon Miss Beccles, my dear boy! Burned feathers! Where is Crawley? Crawley will know what to do to bring her round! Oh, dear, what in the world can have come over her? My poor nerves!”
By this time Miss Beccles had reached the scene, and with a cry had run toward the group by the fire. “Elinor, my love! Mrs. Cheviot! Oh, what is the matter? What caused her to swoon? Pray let me come there, Mr. Nicky! Run quickly to the kitchen and beg a handful of the pheasant’s feathers from Mrs. Barrow!”
“Yes, yes, and call to that fool of mine!” Francis begged. “He is never where he is wanted! I must have my smelling salts and the hartshorn brought directly. She looks horridly pale! I do not know when I have sustained such a shock! How long has she been lying here? It is a mercy her clothes have not been set alight by a spark from that fire! Do hurry, my dear boy!”
“What did you do to her?” Nicky demanded hotly.
“Dear Nicholas, what could I do? I had no time to do more than snatch up that bowl of flowers and cast it over her, and it has not answered in the least! Do pray fetch Crawley! He is very knowledgeable, always knows just what to do in case of illness!”
Nicky stood irresolute for a moment, but upon Miss Beccles’ adjuring him to make haste, swung round on his heel and hurried off to the kitchen. By the time he had brought both the Barrows bustling to the bookroom, he had had opportunity to reflect on the improbability of Francis’ having had any hand in Elinor’s plight. He could not imagine any conceivable reason for an assault on her and began to think that she must have been overtaken by a fainting fit. She was still unconscious, but Miss Beccles, in answer to an agitated inquiry from Francis, assured them that her pulse was beating. Francis, abandoning his attempts to assist Miss Beccles, had sunk into a chair and seemed to be almost as much in need of resuscitation as his hostess. So, at any rate, his valet thought, for when he arrived, in. response to Nicky’s shout, he instantly produced a vinaigrette from his pocket and held it beneath his master’s nose. It was waved away.
“Take it to Mrs. Cheviot!” Francis said family. “I must not be selfish, and I dare say I shall not have one of my spasms if I keep very quiet for a minute or two.”