“I’ll get it,” she said.
She took a step forward, she seemed about to go into her bedroom, but suddenly she swayed, her head fell forward, and she stretched out both her hands helplessly, gropingly.
“It’s all black!” she gasped. “I can’t see!”
Daniel caught her barely in time, for she had fainted in his arms.
XX
Fanchon was very ill that night. Her stormy nature had plunged into an eclipse, and she lay white and shivering, staring at the ceiling, her half-packed trunks around her. She would not let even Emily come near her—only Miranda and the doctor, whom Daniel had summoned hastily. She had not tasted food since Leigh’s shot, and she was worn out.
Dr. Barbour, prescribing food and quiet, made some gruff remarks to Mr. Carter.
“No use killing her,” he said dryly. “Might as well keep her alive, as long as Corwin’s dead.”
William did not come home at all, but spent the night in his office. Daniel went down there on his way to court in the morning. The elevator-boy, a young mulatto, showed the whites of his eyes as he took him up.
“He ain’t been down fo’ noffin’ to eat,” he remarked. “Sen’ me fo’ bottle of whisky, but ain’t eat noffin’.”