He took her up in his arms with infinite tenderness, and carried her across the loft, and down the narrow stair, making his way amidst those massive cross-beams, and by those steep steps with extreme caution, lighted only by the pale glimmer of a fading moon.
Once at the bottom of the stairs, and in the broad corridor, his way was easy enough. He carried his light burden through the silent house, across the empty hall, to old Mrs. Trevanard’s room. Here he laid her gently on the sofa before awaking the blind grandmother. He found a candle on the table, and a match-box on the mantelpiece, and was soon provided with a light.
His first look was at Muriel. She had fainted, and lay motionless where he had placed her—white and death-like.
He went to Mrs. Trevanard’s bedside, and woke her gently.
‘Dear Mrs. Trevanard, there has been an accident. Your granddaughter is hurt; not seriously, I trust, but the shock has made her faint. Will you give her some kind of restorative, while I go and call the servants?’
He left the room for this purpose, hurried to the end of the house where he had been told the servants slept, in a room over the kitchen, knocked at the door of this room, and told one of the girls to get up and dress herself as fast as she could, and come to Mrs. Trevanard’s room without a moment’s loss of time. This done, he hastened back to Muriel, and found the blind grandmother administering to her—holding a glass containing some cordial of her own concoction to the white lips of the sufferer.
‘Why did you persuade me to leave my door open?’ exclaimed Mrs. Trevanard, reproachfully. ‘See what harm has come of it.’
‘Not much harm, I trust in Providence. There has been a shock, but I hope no real injury.’
‘What was it? Did she fall?’
‘No, it was worse than a fall.’